Whatever it takes
by kleinehexe36
Summary: Matt promised to do whatever it takes to protect his city. This time he might push himself too far. Set after season 1.
1. Chapter 1

_Summary: Matt promised to do whatever it takes to protect his city. This time he might push himself too far. Set after season 1._

 _Warnings: canon typical violence_

 _Disclaimer: I don't own Daredevil. No copyright infringement intended. Just showing my appreciation for the show._

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

It was well past midnight at New York Harbor and the air was cold from the snow that had fallen. It covered the street along the water with a thin layer of pure white and coated the tops of the containers that were lined up at the waterside. A pale moon glimpsed through the opening sky, its reflection dancing on the water under the skyline of the city. Between the distant sound of a siren and the lonely barking of a dog, the place was almost peaceful.

However, the man who crouched on top of the containers had not come for the atmosphere of the place. In fact, he couldn't see the lights at all. Blind eyes hidden behind his mask, he tilted his head in concentration, ignoring the foul smell of the water and the traces of diesel and rust that he could taste in the air, and tried to concentrate on the heartbeats of the men on the ship that anchored below him.

He counted four on deck, the strong, regular heartbeats of probably well-trained men, noticed the soft scratching noise their guns made in their holsters when they walked. He took his time to find out how heavily they were armed. One of them, he had the heavy footsteps of a bodybuilder, carried an assault rifle. Matt heard it touch the rail as the man leaned against it to take a short break from his watch. The man worked off his gloves, blew on his hands for some warmth, then reached to retrieve something from his pocket – paper rustling, the click of a lighter. A few seconds later, cigarette smoke hit Matt's nose.

The men were relaxed, didn't have the slightest idea that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen was watching them. Matt grinned in anticipation. Whatever they were smuggling into the city – his informant hadn't been very specific about that matter – it would end tonight. The truck that was supposed to transport the goods would arrive in about half an hour. Enough time to take out the four guards, deal with the remaining men under deck and find out about the exact nature of their business. The truck driver probably wouldn't be much of a problem. Matt could call the police afterward to take care of the rest.

He allowed the guard to take another drag before he swung over the rail and stepped on deck with catlike litheness. The cigarette fell from the man's hand as he turned in surprise, failing to pick up his rifle in time. Matt took a swing at the man's chin and his opponent stumbled backwards. Before he could recover, Matt dealt a second blow to his chest that sent him flying over the rail. A shot rang out from behind just as the man splashed into the water and Matt could feel the bullet hit the wall inches from his right shoulder, denting the steel. He instinctively ducked to the side, avoiding another shot that was fired with more precision, and covered the distance to the shooter in one swift movement, controlling the second guard's gun arm with a firm grip before he could fire another time. Matt dealt a solid punch to his face, felt the nose break under his knuckles, and at the same time heard the third man approaching from behind.

A skilfully placed blow to his temple knocked his current opponent to the ground the moment the third guard cocked his gun. Matt whirled around, reaching for his twin batons as he did. Number three started to empty his gun, firing in rapid succession and forcing Matt to dodge the bullets in a series of near-impossible flips and turns. Snow made the deck slippery, forcing him to go slower lest he lose his footing, and Matt grimaced as he felt the last bullet graze his shoulder, tearing the fabric of his armor in a less reinforced spot. Matt rolled to his feet, his attacker staring in disbelief when the hammer hit an empty chamber. The guard didn't have long to process the information though, as Matt summarily flung his baton against the man's temple, effectively knocking him out.

There had been four men on deck. Where was the last one? Matt stood over the unconscious form of his last opponent, panting slightly from the fight, and listened for the fourth heartbeat. He found it without difficulty. The man had escaped under deck, his frantic heartbeat joining two calmer ones. Matt tilted his head as he concentrated on the hushed conversation behind the steel wall.

 _You're a coward, Baker! What the hell are you doing down here?_

 _Shut it, will you? Get her on the phone, now! We're in deep shit here and she needs to know._

 _Don't wet your pants! There's only one way in and out. He comes through that door, we own him._

 _No, you don't get it. This is Daredevil! We're screwed!_

Matt couldn't suppress a satisfied smile at the last line. He had built up a reputation during the past months, fear preceded the persona he had created. And fear was a weapon he could use to his advantage. As he bent to pick up his baton from where it had fallen, he heard the men behind the door move into position. Guns were being cocked. It would be dangerous to take them on, and he felt adrenaline pulsing through his system with anticipation. Matt made his way to the door in a few, long strides, placed himself beside it and reached for the handle, his back against the wall.

Bullets started flying the instant the door swung open. Lead hit the floor, kicked up snow, buried itself in the door frame. It took a moment for the men to realize there was nobody to aim at.

Matt weighed the baton in his hand, preparing himself for a good throw. He sensed their heartbeats as clearly as the warmth of their bodies, three accelerated pulses but four sources of heat. The only lamp in the room, a fluorescent tube under the ceiling, bright and hot as a beacon.

When the shooting stopped and one of the men turned to reload his gun, Matt slipped into the doorway and hurled his baton against the hot spot at the ceiling, heard glass break as he moved back to safety before they could shoot again. The sound of his baton hitting the floor, followed by a curse. It would take a moment for their eyes to adapt to the near darkness.

Matt charged. He was down the stairs in a second, a movement somewhere between sliding and a controlled leap, jumping into melee before his opponents realized what hit them. The shots fired were a kneejerk reaction at best, random, missing their mark by a wide margin. Matt went for the man who still had rounds in his gun left, used his right hand to force the weapon out of the way while driving a fist into the man's face. Bones broke with a wet smack and the man tumbled against the wall, while his comrade brought the hilt of his not-yet reloaded gun down on Matt's head. Momentarily stunned, Matt fell to his knees and took a vicious blow to the ribs before recovering enough to block a second kick. He managed to catch the man's foot at a favorable angle and twisted it around, sending him to the ground. Matt groaned as he stumbled back to his feet, a hand against the wall for support, trying to focus past the dizziness. His head gear had absorbed a great deal of the blow but he still felt like he had been kicked by a mule.

His opponent was faster to get up and Matt barely dodged a swing at his face. His back against the wall, Matt threw himself into the heavier man and managed to seize him by the collar, head-butting him hard enough to elicit a pained grunt before driving his fist into the man's solar plexus. Matt felt him drop to his knees, gasping for breath, and finished him with a solid strike to the neck.

One more to go. Matt stood, panting, listening. Down the corridor, his senses provided, second room to the left. The man that the others had called Baker was at the phone, talking in a hushed voice. Informing their employer, by the sound of it. Trying to get reinforcements before it was too late. Not the dumbest plan, Matt granted him that. Too bad it wouldn't work.

Matt felt the already frantic heartbeat step up a notch as he entered the room and made his way to the shaking man with menacing slowness. Shapes from the environment registered to his mind, barrels neatly stored across the room, more than he could count. The faint trace of an unfamiliar, chemical smell in air, undetectable to normal senses.

 _Keep him busy._ A female voice at the other hand of the cell phone. _We'll_ _be there in no time_ _._

Baker didn't seem to be all that happy about the advice, obviously doubting that he was capable of what was asked of him. Matt could smell the panic in his sweat as he approached.

"Hang up," he ordered.

The man complied, unable to avert his gaze from the armored devil that was heading towards him. His heart sounded as if it wanted to burst from his chest. If he hadn't been such a low-life, Matt would have pitied him. As things were, his panicked reaction would probably make things easier.

Matt grabbed the man by his collar and shoved him effortlessly against the wall. The phone cluttered to the floor.

"That your employer?"

Baker nodded, wide-eyed, scared to the bone.

"Her name."

"I-I don't..." He choked, trying to come up with an answer that sounded believable.

Matt punched him into the face, a hard smack followed by a cry of pain, then wrapped his hand around Baker's throat.

"Don't lie to me."

Baker's panicked heart skipped a beat before falling back into its frantic stampede.

"Qa'id," he wheezed, struggling under Matt's grip. He was fighting for breath and Matt relinquished his hold, ever so slightly. Wouldn't want him to pass out before he got his answers. "We call her Qa'id."

Truth. Matt had never heard that name before though. He wondered if she was a new player or if he simply had missed her until now.

"Go on."

The man clutched at Matt's hand, trying to get him to release his grip as his knees buckled, but Matt didn't move an inch.

"Nobody knows where she's from," he continued breathlessly. "Appeared from nowhere, with her psycho first in command. Started recruiting about a month ago."

That explained why Matt hadn't heard of her until now. He'd love to have a little talk with her.

"Where can I find her?"

The man huffed a laugh despite his discomfort. "You don't. She finds you."

Not the answer he wanted to hear. Matt's nostrils flared as hit the man in the face. A pained yelp, then the coppery taste of blood in the air.

"Where is she?" Matt growled.

"Nobody knows where she is, I swear." Fear in his voice, his heart hammering wildly. "But she's coming. She'll be here."

"Tell me about the barrels."

The ghost of a sound behind him in the corridor. An intake of breath, the subtle change in the rhythm of a heartbeat.

"I don't know, really. She has some… "

Matt didn't listen to the lie the man was about to tell him and tilted his head, shifting his attention from Baker's heartbeat to what was going on in the corridor. A barely suppressed groan, the shuffling of feet. Matt suppressed a curse, realizing that one of the guards he had taken out had just come to. Baker must have noticed too, as his eyes darted to the doorway in hopeful expectation. Matt took that as his cue to end the conversation and unceremoniously slammed the man's head against the wall, taking him out.

He started towards the doorway but had to change plans in mid-movement when a shot was fired at him. Matt dove behind the barrels just in time, seeking cover, hands reaching for a baton which wasn't there. He sensed it lying at the far side of the room where he had forgotten to pick it up after his last throw. He mentally kicked himself for the negligence. There was nothing here he could use as a missile, he would have to wait for the guard to come closer. Now that he was standing next to the barrels, the chemical stench was nearly overwhelming, a smell somewhere between ammonium and chlorine, but there was an organic component too. It stung in his nostrils and irritated his eyes, even through the mask.

The man in the doorway had no idea where he was hiding, Matt was sure of that. Maybe he could use it to his advantage. Let him come close, then disarm him in one swift attack. However, the guard did not seem to be interested in entering the room.

"Hide all you want," the man called from the door, venom in his voice. Judging by his stance it had to be the one responsible for Matt's headache. "You're dead. You just don't know it yet."

Gunfire echoed through the room and Matt instinctively crouched lower, avoiding a ricocheting piece of lead. It was only then he realized that the man was aiming at the barrels. He heard the bullets penetrate the containers, heard the liquid ooze out of the holes, dripping slowly like oil and dissolving into the air before it could hit the ground. The stench he had noticed before became a solid thing, nauseating, setting his senses on fire.

"See you in hell."

The door slammed shut, and Matt heard a bolt slide into place as toxic vapors started to swirl up, burning his eyes, sending liquid fire through his airways. He coughed, pressed a gloved hand in front of his mouth, forcing himself to breathe past the pain that flared in his lungs.

Out. He had to get out of here.

Matt stumbled to his feet, fighting down a reflexive gasp that would only suck more poison into his lungs, placed a hand against a barrel for support. Holy shit, what was this stuff? There were only traces of the substance in the air but the effect was horrifying. He was reeling already, darkness looming at the edges of his mind, his chest growing tight and tighter still as if crushed by the force of an invisible vise. His shoulder stung fiercely where the bullet had grazed him earlier, screaming at the touch of the toxic air. Half-conscious, Matt found himself staggering across the room, trying to get as much distance between himself and the leaking barrels as possible, willing himself to ignore the flaming agony inside him.

There was a porthole at the end of the room, the only way out. If he could reach it. Somewhere to his right he sensed the form of Baker on the floor, writhing weakly but unable to rise, and Matt stopped to haul him to his feet, arms across his chest in a fireman's carry. Criminal or no, Matt couldn't just let him die. The limp body was a dead weight in his arms that slowed him down, forced him to take another breath that was pure poison before he could go on. Agony in his lungs, eyes watering against his will. Fresh pain when they overflowed, sending rivulets of flames down his face. His heart was beating like a hammer, a reaction to the lack of oxygen in his blood.

Matt stumbled against the wall and grunted, arms firmly locked around the unconscious man. He shifted Baker's weight to his right arm, feeling for the catch that would open he porthole. By now, his legs were like rubber and it was by sheer willpower that he didn't pass out on the spot. There it was. He would have sighed from relief if he could have spared the breath. As is was, he contented himself with hauling the window open, and gulped in the sweet air of New York Harbor.

His lungs protested, still screaming, raw from the abuse, but the roaring in his ears subsided. With some effort, Matt managed to maneuver Baker's limp body through the hole and slipped out right after him.

The water closed above him with a splash, ice-cold, knocking the breath from his lungs. Freezing as it was, it drove some of the dizziness away and he felt his heart rate speed up. Beneath him, Baker's body sank into blackness, small bubbles of air soaring upwards. Without thinking Matt dived after him, gripped him under his shoulders and pulled him up despite the numbness that weighed his limbs. Left hand curled under his chin, he carefully held Baker's head above water and swam ashore, willing his legs to kick, to do their work.

He didn't know how he made it. At some point, he just found himself kneeling in the snow, Baker's body beside him, unconscious but still alive. Matt knew he should get up, but he couldn't, felt himself drifting. It was difficult to breathe past the agony that shredded his lungs and clawed at his eyes and shoulder. He was spent, cold beyond description, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Sirens in the distance. Somebody must have heard the shots and called the police, his pain-muddled brain provided. Good for Baker, as he needed immediate medical attention. Between the chilly temperatures and the toxins in his body, he wouldn't hold out long.

Unfortunately, Matt couldn't hang around. Shivering violently now, he scrambled to his feet, driven by the need to get to safety, away from the harbor. He wasn't sure if he could make it back to his own apartment in the state he was in, didn't trust himself to do climb a roof, let alone parkour across it, but he couldn't stay here either. Swaying, he made his way down the block, warmth draining through his soaked suit with every passing moment. Cold, he was so indescribably cold.

Turning a corner, he leaned heavily against the wall for support, listened to the squad cars arriving at the waterside. He had to call Claire. Foggy, if she wasn't home. The burner phone shook in his hands. He was pressing the correct button, he knew he did, but it wouldn't turn on. It must have been his dive into the harbor that had killed it, effectively cutting off his only line of communication. His only chance of calling for help. He wanted to hurl it against the wall in frustration. Somehow he ended up tucking it back into his pocket though, forced his sluggish mind to think.

Claire's place was nearest, closer than his own place or Foggy's. Closer than his church, for that matter. But it was still a far walk from here and he wasn't sure if he could make it. Hell, his legs were giving out already, every breath was hurting worse than the one before. If somebody saw him, one of his countless enemies, the police even… he didn't want to finish the thought.

Bracing himself against the piercing cold, Matt started to make his way down the alley, one hand against the wall, and disappeared into the night.

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 _Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know. Feedback is greatly appreciated :-)_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Since I'm no medical expert, the descriptions of first aid in this chapter are based on research and what little knowledge I have about the subject. Apologies if I got anything wrong._

 _Thank you so much for our kind reviews. It's been great to hear from you :-)_

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

"Claire."

The voice from the shadows was raspy, unfamiliar, and it startled Claire into a rigid standstill. Her hands curled instinctively around the bottle of pepper spray in her pocket as she turned towards the figure hidden in the darkness under the scaffolding, eyes narrowing as she tried to make out who was talking to her. If it was a stalker that had followed her from hospital or – god forbid – another lowlife connected to Fisk, she'd make sure this was the last time he tried to get close to her.

"Who's there?"

She didn't want to sound as scared as she felt but the slight tremble in her voice betrayed her. Since the night she had been abducted by the Russians, she had become apprehensive, a feeling that had never really passed. It was worse when she was alone, and some freak ambushing her in the middle of the night was more than enough to push all her panic buttons. The small metal bottle felt reassuring in her hand and she pulled it out, pointing it at the stranger.

"Claire, it's me."

Movement in the shadows, the glimpse of red and black clothing. Ragged breathing, a barely contained moan. Whoever this was had a hard time standing, clumsily falling down again when he was halfway up. He didn't pose an immediate threat, that was obvious, and Claire took a step forward, eyes widening when she realized who she was looking at.

"Holy shit, Matt." She mumbled, sudden worry constricting her throat. Slipping off her woolen gloves, she moved to kneel beside him and reached up to his face. His skin was ice-cold touch under her fingers, his suit soaking wet. "What _happened_ to you? Did you fall into the Hudson or something?"

He slumped against the wall, momentarily giving up his attempts to push onto his feet.

"Into the harbor," he clarified hoarsely.

"Why the hell didn't you go home to warm yourself up? Or call me for that matter? I thought that's what the burner was for."

"Burner's dead," he rasped, grimacing as he tried to get to his feet again and Claire helpfully shifted her shoulder under his arm, taking most of his weight as she helped him up.

"So you decided to wait here in the alley, freezing to death? Smart move."

She started to lead him toward the entrance of her apartment building, catching him when his legs gave out, stiff and weak from the cold. God, the man was heavy.

"How long have you been waiting here?"

"Not so long," Matt tried to placate her. She could feel him panting as he leaned against her, the tremors that shook him clearly perceptible even through her coat. "I could hear you coming. You were," he paused, coughing weakly, "just a block away."

"What, you identified me by my footsteps? They're that distinctive?"

Matt leaned against the wall while Claire fumbled for her keys. Warm air enveloped them when she opened the front door, a welcome change to the night chill.

"Combined with your heartbeat, yes."

She huffed a laugh despite the worry throbbing in her chest and moved his arm around her shoulder again, gripping him around the waist with the other hand as she steered him inside. He almost stumbled over the threshold and her hands tightened around him lest he fall down.

"Careful," she admonished, "Let's go slow. You think you can make it up the stairs?"

"I'll give my best," he promised, gripping the banister with a shaky hand.

They went slowly, one step at a time, resting whenever he felt the need, and Claire listened nervously for footsteps or any doors opening. The way he titled his head, attention focused on something she could not hear, told her that he shared her concerns. It was a situation he didn't want to get caught in. To her relief, they made it to her floor without being seen. By the time they finally reached her door, he was reeling and once they were inside, he simply collapsed on the couch, completely spent, burrowing his face in the cushions.

Claire shrugged out of her coat, headed for the bedroom first to grab a blanket, then made an intermediate stop in the kitchen to set some water on to boil. When she finally returned with her medical bag, she found Matt in the same position she had left him. He stirred when she squatted beside him.

"Can you sit up?" she asked gently touching his arm.

He nodded, starting to push himself up, and she took hold of his shoulders to assist him, felt him shaking beneath her hands as she did. Her fingers found the seam of the mask and eased it off his face. She almost gasped when the damage beneath it was revealed.

"Oh my god," Claire muttered under her breath, gingerly turning his face towards her. "What _happened_ to you?"

In the light of her apartment he looked half-dead, lips almost blue, eyes bloodshot and swollen. Some kind of rash ran down from his eyes to his chin, and there was the same redness around his nose.

His mouth twitched into the resemblance of a sad smile. "That bad, huh?"

She raised her eyebrows in confirmation. "Yeah. It almost looks like... some kind of burn. You got chemicals flashed into your face?"

"Toxic gas." He coughed again, wetly, and grimaced when it caused him pain. "Inhaled some of it too."

"Is that why your voice sounds so bad?"

Another nod.

"You got an idea what kind of gas?"

He shook his head, teeth clattering when another tremor got hold of him. He looked like he was about to pass out, but was keeping himself upright by sheer amount of will. Claire kneaded her lip, thinking, eyes drifting to her phone. Toxic gas was bad. It could easily take a couple of hours before the whole extent of damage became apparent, as the substance might continue to do its work. By the time serious symptoms developed, it might be too late to call an ambulance.

"No hospital," he pleaded softly before she could voice her concern. It was creepy how he could tell what he was thinking, even more so as he didn't appear to be as alert as usual. "There's been another victim. They'll connect me with the incident easily."

"This is no joke, Matt," Claire argued, trying to talk some sense into him. "You're hypothermic and there's no telling how bad your lungs are damaged. You could get pneumonia from the chemicals alone. That is, if your lungs don't give out before that."

"It's not that bad."

An understatement at least, judging by the way he looked.

"You can't know that, Matt."

Matt set his jaw stubbornly, meeting her glance as best as he could with his unfocused eyes. He was exhausted beyond limits, shaking like a leaf, but there was no way he was going to hospital. Not when he had a say in it.

Claire sighed, shaking her head in defeat. It was ill-advised, completely irresponsible, she knew that. In the back of her mind, the voice of reason raised a hue and cry, chiming in with the professional nurse who wanted to drag him to an ER at once, rating the physical well-being of her patient above any special requests he might have. But it was more complicated than that and she had to admit that he had a point. She just hoped she wouldn't regret her decision by the end of the day.

"Fine," she conceded, sounding every bit unhappy about this as she felt. "No hospital."

She ran a hand down her face, considering her options. There was not an awful lot she could do for him here, especially with regard to internal injuries, so she'd just have to focus on the rest.

"Let's start by getting you out of those wet clothes and warm you up. You need some help getting out of that suit?"

He shook his head wearily. "No, I can do it."

"Okay, I'll be right back."

She watched his clumsy hands feel for the zipper and left him to the task, heading for the kitchen once more. There had to be some herb tea somewhere, something she'd bought the last time she'd got a cold. Ideally, she would start with active core rewarming now, put him on an IV with warmed fluids in addition to a heating blanket, but she didn't have that option right now. Common means would have to do. Searching her shelves, she finally found what she was looking for and opened a packet of sage tea, measured the loose leaves into a tea pot and poured boiling water over them. The hot water bottle was under the counter and she wrapped it in a dishtowel after filling it, so he wouldn't burn himself. Leaving the tea to steep, she returned to the living room to find Matt struggling with his boots.

Her mood softened when she saw the futility of his attempts.

"Here, let me help."

She knelt next to him and together they managed to work off the wet footwear that clung to his skin. They came off with a wet smack and she took the opportunity to inspect his toes for frostbite, relieved when they looked fine. His drenched suit was next and it landed in a heap on the floor, joining his gloves and mask. When she handed him the hot-water bottle, he accepted it appreciatively, pulling it close.

"Careful, it's hot," she warned.

He closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the warmth, and Claire reached to wrap the blanket around his shivering frame. She noticed the bruises on his torso, dark against the pallor of his skin, most of them old. Following an instinct, she laid her hands against the side of his chest, feeling for broken ribs and didn't find any, then ran her fingers across his skull. A lump at the base of his neck caught her attention.

"Took a hit to the head?" She inquired. As if his condition wasn't bad enough, he'd just have to add a concussion to the list.

"It's okay," he replied, wincing as she examined it. "I've had worse."

"I have no trouble believing that."

Letting it go for the moment, she continued her assessment with his arms and shoulders, frowning when she came across the angry red gash on his shoulder.

"What's that?" she asked worriedly, placing her hand on his upper arm, gently moving him sideways so she could get a better look.

"Bullet grazed me," he mumbled, holding still while she inspected the wound. "It's nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing," Claire objected, brows furrowing. Actually, it looked rather painful. "Looks like an acid burn on top of a bullet wound. It doesn't necessarily need stitches but it should be cleaned."

He acknowledged the information with a small nod, face blank except for a look of utter exhaustion. Claire watched him closely, noting the stiffness in his posture and the color of his skin which seemed to be impossibly paler than before. Sweat glistened on his forehead. He was shivering less violently now, but the way he avoided to take a proper breath was troublesome, a sure sign that he was hurting a lot more than he let on. She knew how he hated pain meds, but if he kept breathing like this, he would likely pass out.

"I'd like to give you an analgesic before I start," she said softly. "It'll also ease the pain in your chest. Make it easier to breathe."

When he didn't react, she placed her hand on his arm, squeezing it lightly. "Matt?"

He flinched, turning his blind gaze towards her in confusion.

"I'll give you something for the pain," she repeated. "Okay?"

"'kay."

His easily given consent troubled her as much as his apparent difficulties to stay alert. It seemed like he was slipping away, whether it was the toxins in his blood or mere exhaustion, she couldn't say. Better to get this over with quickly. Methodically, she wiped the crook of his arm with an antiseptic pad before preparing a needle and administering the drug. He took the pinprick impassively, eyebrows not even twitching.

"You still with me?"

"U-huh."

"Good." She waited for the meds to take effect, relieved when the pained crease between his brows finally disappeared and he took a careful, deeper breath. "Try to stay awake until I'm finished, okay?"

A small nod, followed by a cough. The man needed to rest soon or he'd fall right off her couch.

"You want to lie down?"

He shook his head, eyes drooping. "No, I'm okay."

Sure didn't look like it.

"How are your eyes?" She inquired while she was cleaning the wound on his shoulder. His skin felt icy, even through the latex gloves she was wearing. "If there's any residue of the toxins, they should be irrigated."

"All washed out," came the mumbled answer, hoarse and slightly slurred. It obviously tired him to speak and Claire felt sorry for making him. She needed to make sure she didn't miss anything though.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I…," he swallowed with some difficulty, then went on, "didn't get much into my eyes. They watered like hell though."

"I can see that. You got a rash all over your face."

He turned his head toward her at that, eyes sliding open again. "How bad is it?"

Claire smiled reassuringly, knowing he could sense her doing so. Her fingers smoothed a bandage over the wound. "Don't worry, it won't scar. I have a salve that should help. Couple of days and you'll be handsome as ever."

A smile tugged at his lips at her remark. "You flirting with me?"

Claire shook her head, returning the smile despite the worry that tightened her chest. "Hey, I already got you out of your clothes."

"That you did."

He coughed again, violent this time, breaking into a fit that wracked his body, bringing tears to his eyes. Claire winced in sympathy.

"You feeling up to drink something?" she asked softly. "I made some sage tea. It'll help to warm you up. It might also soothe your throat."

He let his head sink against the backrest of the couch, taking a controlled breath.

"You'll let me sleep after that?"

She smiled compassionately. "I promise."

Matt nodded, eyes closed. "Okay, I'll try."

It turned out trying was the correct way to phrase it. By the time Claire returned from the kitchen with the tea, sweetened and cooled down enough to drink, Matt was merely half awake. He was slouching, drained of all energy and despite his efforts to control the tremors, his hands were too shaky to get a proper hold of the mug. He barely stifled a curse when some of its contents ended up on the blanket, anger and embarrassment displaying on his face, and Claire quietly sat down next to him, steadying his hand and raising the cup so he could drink.

He took his time, careful not to burn himself, the warm beverage feeling too hot against his lips. When he had finally finished, she took the cup from his hands and placed it on the floor.

"Feeling a bit warmer?"

His eyes turned to her, red-rimmed and glazed. They looked endlessly tired.

"A bit."

Not much then. Another thing he wouldn't complain about. It figured.

Claire suppressed a sigh that wanted out, knowing in her heart that the rewarming measures she had taken wouldn't suffice. Which left only one thing that she hadn't tried. She wasn't sure how well he would take it though, given their current state of relationship.

"Matt," she hesitated as she tried to find the right words. "You're still a lot colder than I'd like. Let's get you to bed, okay?"

He shook his head at her suggestion, declining the offer with a faint smile. "I really can't put you out of your bed, Claire. The couch is fine."

Of course he'd misunderstand. She'd have to elaborate to make him understand that this was not about chivalry.

"It's really too small for two people," she clarified, hoping that he'd catch the drift.

Silence. He looked exactly the way she'd expected him to and it wasn't as if she didn't understand. She was conflicted about the idea herself, was aware what the intimacy of sharing a bed would do to them, what it would feel like to bring back the ache that was sleeping at the bottom of her heart. She had cared for him deeply, and she still did. The emotions reflecting in his unfocused eyes told her he felt the same.

But she could steel herself from it. This was part of her promise, to always be there when he needed her to patch him up. And right now he needed all the warmth he could get.

"Come on," she said softly, taking his clammy hand into hers. "It'll be alright, I promise."

For a moment it looked like he would just stay there, planted on the couch, and she gave him a moment to reconsider. She couldn't make him, wouldn't make him if he didn't want to. But when she gently tugged his hand, silently repeating her offer, he gripped the blanket, holding it together in front of his chest, and started to push to his feet. He couldn't stand on his own, muscles still stiff and cramping, and Claire was at his side to catch him, arm around his waist, wrapping his left arm around her shoulders.

"I got you," she said. "Come on, let's go slow."

They made it to her bedroom in small steps and Claire took her time to tug him in, fluffing up a pillow before sliding it under his head and nestling the hot-water bottle among the blankets. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, her hand came to rest on the crown of his head and she gazed at him, tried to read the emotions that played across his face. Hidden among the layer of fatigue and physical discomfort she could make out something else, apprehension as much as relief, and the unspoken need for comfort.

"I'll be gone for a moment," she told him, seeing him close his eyes as the tremors started to take hold of him again. "Gonna hit the shower. You'll be fine on your own? Anything I can get you before I go?"

"No, I'm good." There was the hint of a smile, but he didn't open his eyes again.

When she started to rise, she felt his fingers close around her hand.

"Thank you, Claire," he whispered.

The gesture reminded her of the night they had first met, him half-dead on her couch while she'd had concerns not unlike tonight. It would be alright, she told herself, just like back then. _He_ would be alright. Gingerly, she leaned down to place a kiss on his forehead before pushing to her feet.

"You're welcome."

* * *

 _TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N_ _Okay, this one took a little longer than I expected. I hope you're still with me. Thank you for your kind words and for your encouragement :-)_

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

Matt woke up curled on his side, arms drawn toward his chest for warmth. The cold that had haunted his dreams was still there, though it had decreased markedly. It was a mere inconvenience now, a dull ache deep in his bones that refused to let go. Remnants of heat radiated from a hot water bottle against his stomach, but there was a larger warmth pressed against his back, a warmth that moved slightly with every breath whispering against his neck. The sound of a familiar heartbeat, a slender arm wrapped around his waist. _Clair_ _e._

She had patched him up as always, he distinctly remembered that, though his memory failed to provide much of the details. He recollected just fragments, the touch of gentle fingers on his skin, the concern in her voice. Her scent. The same scent that enveloped him right now, streaming from the cotton bedclothes and breathing onto him from behind. It was subdued, as if he had come down with a cold, but it was there nevertheless, complex and sweet and unmistakably _her._ After the damage the toxins had done to his lungs, he couldn't help but feel relieved that his sense of smell was still working.

He tried a mental check-up of his body then, methodically, directing his attention to one body part at the time. It was difficult to focus, gauge the damage through the drug-induced haze that wrapped around his mind, and at some point he just gave it up. The only pain that registered clear enough came from inside his chest, a deep molten hurt that flared with every intake of breath. It bothered him more than he cared to admit. How long until he recovered from this? A week? Two?

Behind him, Claire sighed in her sleep, burrowing her face against his neck. Her breath quickened slightly, lashes brushing against his skin as her eyes moved behind closed lids. She was dreaming, he realized. The insight stirred something in his heart, something light and warm he couldn't put into words. It was comforting despite the ache that resonated with it, the knowledge that the moment would pass. This was an echo of something that could have been, nothing more. He relished this moment though, the sensation of her snuggled against him, and he felt himself relax in her embrace until the regular thud of her heartbeat guided him back to sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, the warmth behind him was gone. He lay quiet for some time, too exhausted to move and increasingly aware of his injuries as the drugs were losing their grip on him. There were various hurts that demanded his attention, the lump at the back of his head that thumped in unison with his heartbeat. His eyes, still sore from the toxins. The gash at his shoulder burning in a slightly different hue. His lungs were worst, ablaze with pain, struggling to expand against an immaterial weight that sat on his chest. He coughed weakly to make it go away and winced when the effort drove stabbing knives into his chest. Today was gonna suck.

It took some effort to lever himself into a sitting position, but he managed, annoyed at the way his muscles trembled from the strain. Gingerly he moved to the edge of the bed, naked feet feeling for he floor. The rasp of the cotton bedclothes against his skin reminded him not-so-gently of the fact that he wasn't wearing any clothes and he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders for warmth as much as to cover his nakedness. Not too far away he could hear the soft mumbling of a TV and the clatter of dishes mixing in with the sizzling of something frying in a pan. Sounded like Claire was making breakfast. His grumbling stomach told him that he hadn't eaten in a while. Food would be nice before he headed home.

The smell of fried vegetables greeted him when he entered the living room – peppers, tomatoes, zucchini – a variety of herbs blending in. Rice cooking in a separate pot. Claire hadn't noticed him yet and he padded towards the kitchen on shaky legs.

"Good morning." His voice was barely audible and he cleared his throat, leaning against the back of the coach to steady himself. He attempted a smile, but it turned out to be more crooked than anything. "You're cooking?"

"Hey, you're up." She turned around with a surprised smile, her heartbeat spelling worry and relief in equal parts. He could feel her eyes rest upon him as she tried to figure out how he was doing. If he looked only half as bad as he felt, he probably looked like shit. "You hungry? Lunch isn't quite ready yet, but I got some cereal if you want any."

"Um, thanks," he rasped, running his hand over his head in an effort to fix his hair. "I can wait. Smells good though."

"Coffee?"

"No, thanks. But a glass of water would be nice."

"Sure." He could hear the smile in her voice. "Why don't you sit down and I'll be with you in a sec?"

He sank onto the couch drawing the blanket closer around him and waited for Claire to join him. God, he hated to feel like this. The short walk from the bed had drained him, leaving him light-headed and breathless, and he coughed again trying to clear his airways. Something wet came up and he swallowed it, distraught at the coppery taste it left in his mouth.

The cushions shifted when Claire sat down next to him and gently pressed a glass of water into his hands. Her scent wafted over him as she did, carrying memories of last night, of her body folding around him. It was something he really didn't want to ponder right now and he willed the emotions that stirred inside him into silence. He knew where they were standing, she had told him more than once, and he appreciated what she had done. The last thing he wanted was to make her feel sorry for helping him.

"How are you doing?"

The question was gentle, softened by genuine concern that transmitted through her voice and the touch of her hand on his upper arm.

"Better than yesterday, thanks to you." Warmer at least. He gave her a grateful smile. "Thank you. For... what you've done."

He couldn't say it out loud, it felt wrong somehow, and he didn't have to. The gentle squeeze on his arm told him that she knew what he wanted to say.

"I'm glad you're better. How's the pain?"

"Bearable." For the moment at least. He took a tentative sip of water, relishing the coolness against his parched throat. "But that's probably due to whatever you've given me."

She acknowledged the information with a small nod, studying him.

"Your cough sounds worse. Are you still having trouble breathing?"

He shrugged, shivering slightly despite the blanket. Somewhere to his right he could sense his suit lying across a chair, still damp from his dive into the harbor. It would take at least another couple of hours to dry.

He felt Claire's gaze upon him as she still waited for an answer, and Matt tried to put his discomfort into words. "It almost feels like… I've come down with the flu."

And it hurt like hell, despite the residual pain meds still masking the worst of it. He wasn't going to tell her though. She'd just want to drug him up again.

"Do you have a fever?"

He felt her warm hand against his forehead before he could answer.

"No."

"Okay, that's good." She heaved a sigh of relief, brushing a stray strand from her face before she went on. "You should really take something against the pain though. This will just get worse if you don't breathe normally."

She was probably right, and Matt didn't mind taking some mild painkillers. But whatever she had drugged him up with last night was completely out of the question. It would prevent him from doing anything else than lie on the couch. He wouldn't even be able to meditate and he needed to meditate in order to get better soon.

"I got some pills at home," he declared.

"What kind of pills? Aspirin?"

He nodded.

"Ibuprofen would be better really. I'll get you some, along with some meds to prevent your lungs from scarring." She paused, studying him. "Your face looks better by the way. The rash is almost gone. How're your eyes?"

"Still sore but better than yesterday," he replied truthfully.

"May I have a look at your shoulder?"

He slipped the blanket from his shoulders, quietly bracing himself as he waited for the touch of her fingers on his skin. She leaned in to gently peel the bandage away and the brush of her warm breath against his neck caused an involuntary shiver to ripple through his body.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, misinterpreting his reaction as pain.

He gave a wan smile.

"I haven't seen you in a while," Claire said softly as she examined the wound and he tensed when she applied some antibiotic ointment. "Actually, I didn't think I would, now that you got yourself some body armor. It seems to do a good job keeping you safe. Looks good too, by the way."

"Better than my black outfit, huh?"

"Yeah, definitely. It's a big improvement." She paused as she reached for a fresh bandage. When she spoke again she sounded almost sad. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you last night. I really wasn't expecting you, and your voice was…"

"Different. I know." He didn't blame her, he still sounded like some long-time smoker. But now that they were talking about it, he remembered her reaction when he had called out to her, the screaming panic in her heartbeat. "Who did you think I was?"

She shrugged, smoothing the bandage over the wound. "Some creep. I don't know."

Not true. Not exactly a lie either. She was playing it down, avoiding a subject she didn't want to talk about. Not to him, at least. He wondered if it had to do with the night she had been abducted by the Russians, if she was still suffering from the aftermath.

"This seems to be healing," she informed him, interrupting his train of thought. "Given the chemical burn, the scar might not look pretty though."

He couldn't help but smile at her unnecessary concern. "I can live with that."

Claire started to clean up after herself and Matt addressed her as she got up. "Hey, could I use your phone? I'd like to call Foggy, tell him I won't be coming to work today."

"Sure."

She threw him her cell and he caught it reflexively, relieved that his senses were still working well enough to do that. It was then that the TV caught his attention. He had barely noticed the constant mumbling in the background, his mind having filtered it out as irrelevant, but now that the news were on, his curiosity was aroused. The anchor had just mentioned a shooting at the harbor. Hopefully the cops had taken care of the rest.

Claire must have noticed his shift of attention, as she quietly reached for the remote control on the table, turning the volume up.

"This about last night?" She asked, and he just nodded his head, raising his hand to indicate that he was listening.

"… dramatic footage from the crime scene. The shooting is reported to have been brutal. According to Commissioner Higgins from the 15th precinct, six officers were shot dead, two more were taken to hospital. Their condition is critical. Unconfirmed reports state that toxic gas has been released during the incident and may have played a role in the high number of casualties."

Matt felt his heart grow cold. Six officers dead, two more in critical condition. Because of him. If he had been more careful, he would have been able to help. But he had been stupid enough to get himself injured, had been forced to retreat when he should have stayed to make sure that everything went well. His fists clenched as anger welled up inside of him and he felt the desperate need to thrash something, but willed himself to sit tight. He shouldn't have left the police to it, should have known they'd be in over their heads.

Beside him, Claire was staring at the screen in silence, but her quickening heartbeat betrayed her feelings as she reacted to the footage he could not see. It wasn't difficult to imagine though - the crime scene crowded with cops and paramedics, bleeding men rushed away on gurneys, red and blue lights flickering in the background.

"According to police reports thirty barrels of an unidentified chemical compound have been seized. The police are still looking for the shooters."

Thirty barrels. It took a moment until the implications of the number registered, and his heart skipped a beat when it did. There had been more than thirty barrels under deck. Where the hell was the rest of it? Was it possible that the cops had only procured part of the cargo? That would mean that the chemicals were still in the hand of the people who had tried to smuggle it into the city, and judging by what the stuff could do, they were planning to use it as a weapon. Having experienced its effects firsthand, Matt didn't want to imagine what this stuff could do if released somewhere in his neighborhood. At a mall. At a school.

Suddenly he felt very sick.

"Matt, are you alright?"

Claire's hand on his arm, her heart beating worry and fear. He was sorry for scaring her, was debating how much he could tell her, what good it would do.

"This got something to do with your dive into the harbor?"

He nodded, running a shaking hand over his face. How on earth had he allowed this to happen? How had people like that been able to set foot on his doorstep without him noticing?

"Matt?" Firmly, this time, demanding an answer. "Talk to me."

He directed his blind gaze at her, letting her know that he acknowledged her, even if he didn't know what to say. He just hoped that the emotions that tore him up from the inside didn't display on his face.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled finally, it was the only thing he could think right now. "Claire, I … messed up."

"You were there during the shooting?"

He shook his head. "No, before. I left when the police arrived, hoping they'd take care of the rest."

The men on the ship had been knocked out, all except for the one that had locked Matt in the cargo area. It was impossible for him to have overpowered the cops on his own. But there had been the woman on the phone, Qa'id. Matt distinctly remembered her saying that she'd be there in no time. She must have tried to save the shipment.

"Please don't tell me you're blaming yourself for the deaths of the cops. That's not your fault."

But it was. And it was so much worse than that. He hesitated, searching for the right words and didn't find them. Claire thankfully turned off the TV, getting rid of the annoying noise in the background before turning back to him.

"Matt?" She asked gently.

He shook his head at himself. He had pulled her into this mess asking her to patch him up again. She deserved to know.

"The toxic gas that's responsible for," he made a vague gesture with his right hand, "what happened to me. They had a complete shipload of it. Barrels, I don't know how many, but definitely more than thirty. I didn't even breathe in that much of it, but as you can see, it's very… effective."

"When you say 'they', you mean who? The shooters?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "Maybe some kind of terrorists, I don't know."

"And you're saying they have more of this war gas here in Hell's Kitchen?"

He nodded, mute.

"Oh my God," she muttered under her breath. "How come they didn't say so on the news?"

"I don't know. Maybe the authorities want to avoid a panic. Maybe the cops have a lead. But I don't believe it. I think, what's more likely is that some cops are in on it, just like with Fisk. I mean, you don't just shoot some cops, unload a ship and then disappear without a trace." He shrugged, helplessly, not knowing what to think.

He could sense that Claire was staring at him.

"You've got to tell the police."

"And what good would that do? If they just want to avoid a panic, then there's nothing to tell, they'll know already. If some cops are in on it, I don't know whom to trust."

"Isn't there this cop you told me about? Officer what's his name..."

"Officer Mahoney." Matt tilted his head, weighing his decision. "I don't know. Maybe. I might give it a shot."

"Good." Resolution. "For a moment, I thought you'd run off again trying to take care of things by yourself."

Which, ultimately, he'd have to do. He knew it wasn't the smartest thing to do given the state he was in, and if the circumstances were any different, he'd like nothing better than to lay low and get some rest. Hell, he felt wretched to say the least. But lives were at stake here, he didn't know how many. He couldn't just let half a shipload of war gas sit in the hands of some madmen. Only God knew what they were up to, and it couldn't be anything good.

"Here," he felt Claire pressing something into his hand. Her cell phone, he realized. He hadn't even noticed that he'd dropped it. "Call Foggy. Ask him to come over. Maybe he can be here before I have to get to work."

It sounded like a good idea. Matt could even ask him to bring some dry clothes so he could head home. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate Claire's hospitality, but he didn't want to bother her any more than he had to. Besides, he really felt like taking a shower and brushing his teeth. Foggy wouldn't be too happy to learn about what had happened though. In fact, his friend might even try to stop him from doing what needed to be done.

"What is it?" Claire asked when she saw him hesitate.

There was no way around it really, Foggy had to know. He'd deal with the inevitable discussion once it came up.

"Nothing." Matt gave her an apologetic smile. "Hey, could you dial for me? I can't read a touchscreen display."

"Sorry, I forgot. Of course." She typed in the number he gave her, then handed him the phone back.

"Thanks."

Leaning back against the cushions, he lifted the phone to his ear and listened to the ringing tone. It took a moment until someone picked up.

* * *

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N So I'm a late again, sorry about that. This chapter has been a bit of a struggle and with real life and everything, it just took a bit longer. Actually, I think a biweekly update might be more realistic on the long run._

 _Regarding the last chapter: Somehow I've always pictured Claire with a flip phone (no idea where that came from) and I've had to rewatch some episodes to confirm that of course she has a smartphone. Which Matt wouldn't be able to use that without help, so I've fixed that. Thank you for pointing it out :-)_

 _I can't thank you enough for your kind feedback. It's really great to hear from you and I'm so happy that you are enjoying this!_

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

It was in the early afternoon when Foggy knocked on Claire's door, duffelbag in hand and slightly out of breath from climbing the stairs. Worry knotted his stomach as he stared at the shabby door in front of him, waiting for it to open.

Matt's phone call had been a relief after a morning of tense waiting, which he had spent between leaving countless messages on Matt's voicemail and trying to convince Karen as much as himself that there was no need to be concerned. That Matt had probably just overslept after having a drink too much. That he would come in any minute. He had come up with several harmless scenarios that were meant to distract himself from the other explanations his mind offered him. Unsolicited, worrying explanations that manifested in images of nightmarish content: Matt's lifeless body floating face down in the Hudson. Beaten to death in some nameless alley, every bone crushed and broken. Bleeding out on the floor of his own apartment, face pale in the changing light of the billboard. The last image was most insistent, returning with a grim persistence.

Ever since Foggy had found him that night months ago, the sight had burnt itself into his brain, and it was on days like this when it reminded him of the reason why he hated what Matt was doing. At least today he knew that Matt was still alive.

Someone moved behind the closed door and Foggy knocked again, wanting Claire to hurry up. Matt hadn't been very precise on the phone, had just given him the most important information in a voice that sounded hoarse and pained and very tired. _I'm at Claire's, I need dry clothes. Could you please come and pick me up_. He wouldn't tell what had happened, apparently it was a longer story, and Foggy hadn't wanted to ask him with Karen listening in. So he had swallowed the questions sitting on his tongue, and being the good friend he was, he had left immediately, turning from his path only to pick up some clothes from Matt's apartment as requested.

He was just about to knock a third time, when he heard the bolt slide back and Claire's familiar face appeared in the doorway. The last time he had seen her, her arms and shirt had been stained with Matt's blood, her pretty face exhausted and marred with concern. Now she looked more relaxed and he took that as a good sign.

"Hey, Foggy," she greeted him. "Come in."

"I came as fast as I could. How is he?"

Foggy stepped past her, eyes immediately searching for Matt and finding him slouched on the couch, pale like a ghost, a thick blanket around his shoulders. The remains of his lunch were still on the table before him. Matt turned his blind gaze in Foggy's direction when he entered, giving him a lopsided smile.

"I'm okay," Matt answered hoarsely before Claire could say anything. "Thank you for coming."

"Sure thing, mate."

Foggy walked over to him, taking in the fading rash on Matt's face and his reddened eyes, and shook his head, dismayed at the sight. Okay was an obvious understatement, probably born from a well-intended attempt of easing his worries.

"You look terrible," Foggy told him. "What happened?"

Matt shrugged slightly. "I ran into some trouble last night."

Foggy narrowed his eyes at the evasive answer. If Matt thought he could get away with this, he was sorely mistaken.

"What kind of trouble?"

Matt hesitated, apparently tried to come up with an answer that wouldn't upset Foggy any further. Was probably listening to his friend's heartbeat, gauging how angry he was at the moment.

"He took a dive into the harbor," Claire interjected matter-of-factly, ignoring Matt's pleading glance. She pushed past Foggy and started to clean up the table, as she continued to brief him. "Inhaled some unknown toxic substance, which damaged his lungs. How badly remains to be seen. Then there's the graze wound on his shoulder, of course, and he took a hit to the head."

Foggy took a deep breath, trying to process the information and continued with the part that worried him the most. "A toxic substance?"

"War gas, probably," Matt said quietly.

"What, like mustard gas? Here in Hell's kitchen?" Foggy looked from Matt to Claire. It took a moment for him to make the connection. "Wait a minute. The shooting at the harbor last night. It's been all over the news."

"Yeah, I was there," Matt confirmed. "Left before the police got there."

There was only one reason Foggy could think of which would cause Matt to leave a fight.

"Because you were wounded."

Matt locked his jaw and nodded mutely.

"How bad is it really?" Foggy asked solemnly, sinking into the arm-chair as his agitation melted into profound concern. He'd noticed the controlled expression on Matt's face, the subtle furrow between his brows that he had come to know as a sure sign that Matt was in pain and didn't want anybody to know. But Foggy saw, the constant worry of the past months having been a great teacher. He shot Claire a questioning glance and she raised her shoulders in a helpless gesture.

"I'm no doctor, and since he refuses to go to the hospital, I can't say for sure. But his lungs and airways are inflamed, that much is obvious. The stuff seems to be corrosive when it comes into contact with water. That's why the rash is worst around his eyes and nose. I'm willing to bet his lungs look even worse."

Matt coughed as if on cue, a sick, rattling sound that caused Foggy to wince in sympathy. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'll be fine," Matt muttered quietly, tears in his eyes as he tried to keep another coughing fit at bay. It was obvious how much the conversation annoyed him. Foggy grabbed the water bottle from the table and handed it to his friend, who accepted it with a grateful smile.

"Probably," Claire retorted. "If you take it easy and get some rest."

Matt rolled his eyes as he took a swag from the bottle, which was a dead giveaway that he had heard that particular advice more than once today.

"I'll make sure he does," Foggy promised.

"Hey, Foggy," Matt cleared his throat, taking the opportunity to change the topic. "Did you bring the clothes?"

"Of course." Foggy handed him the duffel bag he'd brought and Matt unzipped it to pull out a soft shirt, slipping it over his head. The white bandage on Matt's shoulder caught Foggy's attention as he did.

"Anything else I should know?" He asked Claire.

"Yeah," she answered from the kitchen, shooting him a quick glance over her shoulder as she put the dirty dishes in the sink, then bent to pick up a plastic bag from the counter. "Actually, you could stop by a pharmacy and get some Ibuprofen. He doesn't want anything stronger, and Aspirin is really a bad idea right now. It's anticoagulant and might promote bleeding."

Foggy nodded, making a mental note. "Will do."

She carried the bag over to Foggy, and when he looked inside, he found a familiar mask and suit together with a pair of boots. They were still damp and smelled of mud and blood. He hadn't expected the sight to upset him again, but it did. Helpless anger coiled in his chest and for a brief moment, Foggy felt the overwhelming urge to get rid of the stuff for good, loose it on their way home or throw it into the next dumpster.

He didn't want to spend the rest of his life fearing for Matt, worried sick every time he was late. But in his heart, he knew that destroying the suit wouldn't change anything. It would only drive them further apart, and Foggy didn't want that. Even if he hated what Matt was doing, he still loved his friend. It was a painful realization, but Foggy knew it to be the truth. For now, all he could do was to be there for him when he was needed and hope that one day he'd come to his senses. Foggy just hoped that it wouldn't be too late then.

Matt must have noticed that something was wrong, as he stopped in the middle of tying his shoes, directing his unfocused gaze at Foggy.

"Is everything alright?" His voice was strangely soft.

Foggy snapped from his trance and glared at him, pained anger constricting his throat, and for a beat he felt like telling him. But there was nothing he could say that Matt didn't already know, and he didn't want to go back into this in front of Claire. So he just shook his head and sighed.

"Let's get you home, okay?"

It wasn't what he'd wanted to say and Matt knew. Foggy could see it in the way he tilted his head, listening to something only he could hear. But he played along, just like he always did.

"Okay."

Matt finished lacing his shoes and said his goodbye to Claire, thanking her for everything she had done, and Foggy chose not to address the subject again. At least until they were back at Matt's place.

They rode the cab in silence.

* * *

When Matt returned from his bedroom, hair still wet from the shower and dressed in a comfortable pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, he was feeling decidedly better. It had been a relief to rid himself of the lingering smell of harbor water and grime, and the painkillers that Foggy had made him take as soon as he'd purchased them were finally taking effect as well, reducing the burning agony in his lungs to a bearable ache.

Foggy had insisted on staying, had been worried that his friend might pass out under the shower after witnessing his trouble climbing the stairs, and sure enough he was still there as Matt entered the room. He found him standing at the window, gazing at the street below, a bottle of beer in hand. Even though his heartbeat had slowed a bit, his concern was still palpable, filling the room like a sad song.

Foggy remained silent as Matt padded over to the couch and settled down, merely took a deep swag from the bottle before looking out of the window again. For a moment Matt considered to say something, but then changed his mind. Foggy would eventually address whatever it was he wanted to say, and Matt had a pretty good idea what that was anyway. No need to press onwards. Just give him some time. Minutes passed in which Matt listened to the agitated thud of Foggy's heart, the regular in and out of his breath, and when he finally noticed a soft sigh, he knew that Foggy was ready to talk.

"I hate this, Matt."

It was what Foggy had been wanting to say ever since he'd accepted the plastic bag at Claire's apartment, and Matt felt a strange relief that the words were finally out in the open. He found outspoken, riled up Foggy a lot easier to deal with than the tense, silent one he'd experienced up till now.

"I know," Matt said sincerely. "I'm sorry."

He felt Foggy's gaze weigh on him as he pondered the response.

"I should have called you earlier," he continued. "You've probably wondered where I've been."

Foggy had. The lurch of his heart told Matt that he had feared the worst. "I hope you were doing okay at the office without me."

"If you're talking about your appointment with Mrs. Moyano, I took care of that. Karen's rescheduled the dates with your other clients." Foggy's voice was level, no accusation there, just information. This was not the reason he was upset with Matt.

"Thank you, that's good." Matt nodded. "What did you tell her?"

"Karen? That you've come down with the flu and needed me to get to the doctor's."

It was plausible and explained Matt's hoarse voice as well as his cough. If she called him, she wouldn't suspect anything. Nevertheless, he felt bad for making Foggy lie to her again.

"Thanks, man." He smiled apologetically. "I know this has been hard on you."

"I hate lying to her," Foggy said angrily and Matt could hear in his heartbeat how much he meant it. "Every time I tell her some fairy tale about how you got hurt, I feel like a downright asshole. You know that she trusts us, right? That she thinks we're friends. And I lie to her on a fairly regular basis because of you."

There was truth in what he said, and it felt like a stab into Matt's heart. He liked Karen, and it wasn't as if he didn't trust her. There were just too many people who knew about his secret identity already, and it put them in danger. Claire had cruelly experienced it herself. He couldn't subject Karen to the same danger, he'd never forgive himself.

Foggy took another swag from the bottle, shaking his head.

"One day you gotta explain this to her," he said. "She deserves better."

"Yeah, I know."

"Do you? Because I think if I hadn't found you in your costume that night, you never would have told me. And you're not planning to tell Karen either."

"I can't tell her," Matt reasoned. "I don't want her to get hurt."

"Then stop doing this!"

Matt shook his head. "We've talked about this, Foggy. I'm not gonna stop."

This wasn't only about him or Foggy. It was about everyone in Hell's Kitchen, all the people that he could help. It felt wrong to just sit back and do nothing when he could really make a difference here. Especially now when so many lives were at stake. "And … I'm sorry I had to call you to pick me up. It won't happen again."

"No. I _want_ you to call me when you need help, okay? I just…" He made a helpless gesture at Matt. "I mean, look at you, Matt. You're half dead. Again."

He sighed. "I'm not half dead."

"Well, you sure look it. I worry about you, okay? Karen, too." He paused, shaking his head at him. "Will you at least take it easy and get some rest? Or do I have to stay here and make sure that you do?"

"Foggy..."

Matt didn't want to lie but he couldn't tell him the truth either. He had considered telling Foggy about the missing barrels, about the threat that these chemicals posed for everyone as long as they stayed here in Hell's Kitchen. Foggy would try to stop him at best. At worst, he would try to help and put himself in danger, probably Karen too, and Foggy was no soldier or cop. He didn't know how to defend himself against people like these.

It would only make things worse if he knew. So Matt tried to placate him, avoiding an honest answer.

"You don't have to worry about me, okay?"

"You're already planning to go out there again, aren't you." It was not a question. "The cops are still looking for the shooters. Don't tell me you don't want to help."

Matt sighed, realizing that there was no elegant way out of this.

"Look, Foggy, I'm not stupid. I know I can't fight like this."

That wasn't a lie. He had tried not to worry Claire, but Matt knew exactly how much his lungs had suffered from the chemical exposure. In addition to the pain in his chest, his muscles and brain were constantly low on oxygen, making him feel weak and dizzy. Taking on any trained fighter like this was suicide, and he wasn't planning on doing that tonight. However, there were other things he could do. Like talking to Brett about the matter, or some simple eavesdropping to gain information.

"I'm glad you understand that," Foggy replied, not quite convinced.

"I do."

"Good."

He could feel Foggy sizing him up, trying to tell whether he was telling the truth.

"So, I can trust you to stay here and rest? Because we've got an appointment at court this afternoon that at least one of us should show up at."

Matt remembered the custody case they currently worked on and had to agree with Foggy. If they failed to show up today, little Jenny and her mother would suffer.

"As I said, you don't have to worry."

Matt knew what it sounded like and he had to try hard not to shrink under Foggy's scrutinizing glance. It was a lie, no matter how he looked at it.

"I'll take your word for it."

Matt smiled at him in confirmation and was glad when Foggy's phone beeped, preventing him from making the lie any worse. Foggy pulled it from his pocket, swiping the screen.

"Shit," he muttered to himself. "I gotta get going."

"Karen?"

"Yeah. We wanted to meet at court." Foggy checked the time, then put the half-empty bottle on the table and grabbed his jacket from the arm-chair. "I'm late already."

He stopped to give Matt another look.

"Get some rest, okay?" His anger from before was gone. Now it was just the worry talking through him.

Matt nodded. "Thanks man. For everything."

Foggy smiled, letting him know that as far as he was concerned, they were okay.

"I'll drop by again after work and bring some dinner."

That was a bad idea. Matt didn't know when he'd be back tonight and he didn't want to imagine how Foggy would react if he found him gone.

"Please don't. Actually, I'd really like to go to bed early and get some sleep." Matt tried to sound casual about it, and judging by Foggy's heartbeat, he succeeded.

"Fair enough. It's breakfast then."

It was hard to return the smile Foggy gave him but Matt managed somehow, feeling very much like a jerk. He'd just lied to his best friend, who just wanted to help. But it was better than risking him to get hurt.

"See you tomorrow."

And with that, Foggy was out of the door.

Matt listened to the retreating footsteps echo in the hallway, then heard the front door fall shut. Foggy's blew on his hands when he stepped into the cold, the snow crunching softly under his shoes as he walked down the block. Matt heard him call out to a cab, followed by the sound of a car door opening and closing again. He tracked the receding engine until he could no longer hear it.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, running a weary hand across his face. He was tired. Exhausted. Every fiber of his body demanded rest, his mind was too woozy to take hold of a clear thought anymore. The conversation with Foggy had drained him. Maybe Foggy was right, maybe he should stay at home tonight.

In the back of his mind, he could hear Stick sneering. _You little_ _brat_ _. You think you're exhausted? You don't even know what exhaustion means. Get on your feet before I make you._

Thinking of Stick always seemed to do the trick. Slowly, like an old man, Matt rose to his feet and padded over to the wall where he settled on the floor, legs folded Indian-style. There was no way he could stay at home tonight, he was responsible for this. It had been his fault that things had gone wrong the way they had. But before he left, he had to try and heal. Closing his eyes, he directed his mind to the base of his backbone, consciously straightening his back vertebra by vertebra, and rested his hands on his knees, palms upwards. No matter how exhausted he was, the ritual was so ingrained in himself, he could feel his mind emptying with the first exhale of breath that left his lungs. A few breaths, and the residual pain started to decrease, retreating into the back of his mind where it no longer bothered him. With that, profound stillness spread in his soul, a deep peace that continued to extend through every fiber of his being and finally allowed his body to heal.

* * *

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N So I finally got this chapter finished :-) Sorry for the delay. I really meant to update sooner, but I needed to decide where I was going with this and it just took a while until I had it figured out. Usually I stick to short stories, which are a lot easier plotwise (and they're easier to fit in your daily schedule too!). The crime part of the plot actually had me thinking for a while. I hope this chapter doesn't stretch belief too far._

 _Thank you all for your continuing support. It's always great to hear from you :-)_

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

Talking to Brett Mahoney was easier said than done. Originally, Matt had hoped to get a hold of him after work and waited near the precinct, but when the opportunity didn't arise, he followed him home. He was disappointed when he found out that Mahoney didn't live alone – it would have made things a lot easier. As things were, a young woman was waiting for the officer with dinner, and Matt would have left, if it hadn't been for a promising snippet of conversation in which Brett assured her that he would take out the garbage later tonight.

So Matt found a sheltered place nearby, biding his time as he listened to the couple enjoying their meal, talking about the events of the day with the TV mumbling in the background. He wasn't interested in their private conversation and didn't want to intrude either, so he languidly shifted his attention to the other people in the building. An old lady talking on the phone in the apartment just below Mahoney's, a baby crying in the apartment above. A couple having a loud argument about whose turn it was to do the dishes.

At some point it started to snow again and Matt wistfully thought of his warm bed. Tailing Mahoney had been more than enough physical exercise considering the state he was in and he was shivering despite the extra layer of clothes he was wearing under his suit. He really shouldn't be out here, the cold wasn't doing him any good. Claire would have chided him if she knew, just like Foggy, who would probably have given him the lecture of his life. But it would be okay, he told himself. He would be okay. All it needed was a little chat with a cop he could trust, make sure that the police had all the information they needed, and he'd be back home, healing. He coughed wetly, wincing as the pain in his chest flared up despite the meds he had taken. He just hoped Brett would finish dinner quickly.

It was during a commercial break when Mahoney finally stepped outside, trash bag in hand, and trudged through the snow toward the dumpster. Matt slipped from his hideout as soon as he heard him leave his apartment and when the police officer swung the plastic bag into the container, Matt stepped from the shadows.

"Officer Mahoney."

Brett almost jumped, startled by Matt's sudden appearance.

"Holy shit. It's you again."

He didn't sound happy at all, and his first action was to look over his shoulder if anyone else was near. But there was nobody, Matt knew. The nearest person was a homeless man seeking shelter from the cold in a house entrance about one block away. He wouldn't hear them. Everybody else was inside, and at these temperatures, most of the windows were closed.

"You stalking me now?" Mahoney sized him up, his heartbeat revealing exactly how pissed off he was to run into the vigilante in front of his home. Matt couldn't hold it against him.

"I need to talk to you," he said hoarsely.

Brett folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes. Matt could smell the lasagne and beer on him he'd had for dinner and the sweat that bespoke a long working day.

"What happened to your red suit?"

Matt was indeed wearing his old black costume after the other had failed to dry in time. It didn't do much for him in terms of protection, but he didn't need that to talk to Mahoney, and it was a lot more comfortable to move in.

"It's drying," he retorted, not inclined to elaborate on the subject.

"Really?" Mahoney huffed a small laugh that sent little clouds of breath into the frosty air. "I always thought you superheroes had a spare suit or something in your closet."

Matt chose to ignore the remark. He was cold, miserable and not in the mood for jokes.

"I need to talk to you about the shooting at the harbor last night."

Brett looked at him suspiciously, shoving his hands under his armpits for warmth. "You were there, weren't you." It was more of a statement than question. "Breathed in some of that stuff. That's why your voice sounds so bad."

Matt clenched his teeth and nodded.

"Shit, from what I've heard, you can call yourself lucky to be alive."

"Guess, I am," he admitted. "Can you tell me what happened after the cops arrived?"

Brett frowned in confusion. "Don't you watch the news?"

"I do. But some of the things they said don't add up. I was hoping you could help me out here."

Mahoney sighed, and from the way he looked up to his apartment Matt could guess what was on his mind.

"I wasn't there when it happened, okay?" His voice was low, as if he feared that somebody was listening. "Just arrived to pick up the pieces. Must have been a hell of a fight, we lost some good men there."

"What about the cargo?"

"It didn't leave the ship, if that's what you're worried about. We procured thirty barrels of chemicals in total. Some of them were damaged though, we had to move in with breathing masks."

So it was exactly as he had feared. It had been the right decision to come and talk to Brett tonight instead of waiting it out.

"Who filed the report?" Matt inquired.

"Why?"

"Because there were a lot more than thirty barrels of that stuff. The cargo area was full of it."

Mahoney looked at him like he was out of his mind. "You sure about that?"

"As you said yourself, I was there."

"Holy shit," Mahoney cursed at the information, alarm and disbelief sounding in his voice. Despite the cold, there was the sudden smell of sweat in the air. "So, how many barrels are we talking about?"

"I didn't stop to count. But it was a lot."

"More than a hundred?"

"Definitely, yeah."

"Shit." He cursed again. "That means we're dealing with a severe terror threat here."

Matt nodded. "And it means that whoever filed the reports is probably in on it."

"No, that's… I don't believe it." Mahoney shook his head. "Do you even hear yourself? No cop would willingly help smuggle chemical weapons into the city."

It didn't sound plausible, even considering the amount of corruption that Fisk had brought to the local precincts. However, there really was no other explanation Matt could think of. There were a lot of new guys replacing the dirty cops that had gone down with Fisk, maybe one or two of them had a hand in this.

"The barrels were still there when the first cops arrived, and now they're gone," Matt explained calmly. "And you think you procured the complete cargo. How do you accomplish that without help from the cops? While we're at it, how do you get a shipload like that past border control?"

"Okay, I see your point," Mahoney sighed. "But I still find it hard to believe."

"You know who filed the reports?"

"I think so, yeah."

Brett didn't elaborate and Matt gestured him to go on.

"I need a name."

Mahoney shook his head.

"No." The tone of his voice left no doubt that any argument about this was futile. "I want you to stay out of this. I'll look into it myself."

Somehow Matt had expected an answer like this, but found it nonetheless disappointing. With his heightened senses, it would have been a lot easier for him to get the answers they needed. But Mahoney was a cop, and this was about his colleagues. Matt could see why he didn't want Daredevil to be involved.

"Alright," he consented reluctantly. "But be careful."

Matt tilted his head, listening to a sound from Mahoney's apartment that caught his attention. A young woman stepping up to the window, drawing back the curtains to gaze outside. She might decide to come down any moment, find out what was keeping him so long. From where she was standing, she couldn't see him though. "Anything else you can tell me?"

"I probably shouldn't tell you, but…" Brett hesitated. "Lab's had the chemicals analyzed. The stuff is known as Alpha-Genoxime. Highly volatile, extremely dangerous. Fabrication is apparently quite complicated and there are few people who have the skill and the knowledge to make it. Happens one of them is serving a life sentence on Ryker's Island."

That was interesting. "Who?"

"Ivo Chamoun. You might have heard of him."

Matt remembered the name. Chamoun had been an arms dealer, a big name in the local underworld before his organization had been dismantled about ten years ago. The trial had been all over the news. It still might be a coincidence though.

"You think he has something to do with this?" Matt said doubtfully. "That would mean he's running this operation from prison."

Mahoney shrugged. "I don't know. But the military never had anything to do with this stuff. It's black market only. Right now Chamoun is our best bet."

So the cops did have a lead, it was reassuring to know that. However, Chamoun wasn't the name Matt had heard on the ship. Maybe he had nothing to do with this after all.

"Ever heard of a woman named Qa'id?" he asked.

Mahoney frowned in confusion, shaking his head. "No. How do you even spell that?"

"No idea. But one of the guards from the ship told me he was working for her."

"Well, that's something." Mahoney acknowledged the information with an appreciative nod. "I'll see if I can find anything about her."

There was movement in Mahoney's apartment, a flowerpot being moved on the windowsill, then the window opened and a woman stuck her head out to peer down into the alley. Matt instinctively retreated further into the shadows.

"Brett?" She called down to them. "Everything alright?"

Mahoney stepped into the light where she could see him more easily and waved up to her. "Yeah, don't worry. I'll be up in a sec."

"Who are you talking to?"

He hesitated for only the fraction of a second. "Mrs. Waterman from next door. Says her cat has run away again." The lie was obvious to Matt's ears, but his wife didn't seem to notice. "I'm sorry, honey, I'll be right up."

She arched her head but Matt knew she couldn't see him. "Well, the movie has started already," she informed him somewhat indignantly.

"I'm coming."

Her head disappeared and Matt heard the window close.

"Look," Mahoney turned toward him again, "I'm glad for the info, but this is all I got. Besides, the case is off our hands now anyway. Chemical weapons means this goes to the feds."

"Yeah, I expected that," Matt said quietly. "Thanks for talking to me."

Mahoney huffed, annoyed. "Just remember, you ain't got this from me. And please do me a favor and _never_ seek me out at my home again. Leave my family out of this."

Matt gave him an apologetic smile. The man had every right to be pissed. "You shouldn't keep your wife waiting," he said softly, nodding towards the apartment.

"She's my _fiance_ ," Brett corrected.

Matt gave him a lop-sided smile. He had noticed the change in his tone, a soft timbre that revealed how much he cared for her.

"Well, enjoy the movie."

"Yeah, right."

Matt could feel Mahoney gaze after him as he made his exit into the shadowed alley and at some point heard him head back to his apartment, his footsteps crunching in the snow. Part of him actually envied the man. He didn't know Brett's fiance, but right now the prospect of returning to an empty apartment filled him with a sadness he hadn't felt in a while. Maybe it was the night he had spent at Claire's, the memory of sharing a bed with her. Maybe it was just the exhaustion. He could feel it in his bones now, pairing with a deep ache that bespoke a beginning fever. He coughed again, painfully, shaking his head at himself. Better to get home and rest. He would see about everything else tomorrow.

* * *

The knocking on the door was fierce enough to register even through the walls of sleep. It was persistent, annoying really, but he would have slept on anyway if it hadn't been for the voice that called his name. A female voice. _Claire_. Slowly he clawed his way back to awareness, back to the painful tightness in his chest and a feverish ache that burdened his whole body. He found his bed sheet to be soaked with sweat, his blanket lying somewhere on the floor. He must have kicked it off while sleeping.

He ran a shaky hand across his closed eyes, wiping the stickiness away that glued them shut. Judging by the traffic noise outside it had to be around seven in the morning.

The knocking sounded again, followed by a concerned call. "Matt, are you okay in there? Come on, open the door!"

He struggled into a sitting position, pushing himself up against the wall and took a careful, deep breath that hurt so badly it brought tears to his eyes. The coughing fit that followed was violent, felt like shreds of his lungs being ripped out, and it left him light-headed and shaking. The coppery taste in his mouth was familiar by now. God, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this sick.

Knock, knock. The sound had changed in quality, as it was no more knuckles against wood but the fleshy part of a fist banging against his door.

"Matt?" Worry made her voice quiver, a sound that was so far from her usual calm that he actually attempted an answer.

"I'm coming."

It was meant as a shout but really wasn't more than a croak and he didn't think she'd heard. Better to get moving. It took an unreasonable amount of effort to maneuver his legs over the edge of the bed and he closed his eyes while he gathered his strength to stand up. When he did, the earth rocked beneath his feet, his right hand instinctively reached for the wall, and it took a moment until he found his balance.

The door wasn't far, but today it felt like a mile away. He went slowly, running his fingers along the wall as much for support as to guide his way, as the fever clouded his senses. Usually he was able to tell the dimensions of a room effortlessly but right now the space seemed to be a living thing, extending and shrinking in unpredictable ways. He cursed as he bumped his knee on the small cabinet in the hall, too weary to focus on much beside staying upright and finding the fricking door. The knob felt cold under his fingers and he turned it, pulling the door open.

There was a brief moment of silence in which he felt a pair of eyes staring at him.

"Holy shit, Matt." She sounded aghast, her voice so low she almost breathed the words. "You look like hell."

He reached for the wall, leaning against it as he stepped aside to let her in.

"Feel it too," he admitted breathlessly.

"Did I wake you up?"

"Yeah." He ran his hand though his hair, uneasy as he felt her scrutinizing gaze weigh on him. "Sorry it took me so long to answer the door."

"Don't apologize. The way you look, you shouldn't be up at all."

He felt her arm wrap around him and he gratefully leaned against her as they made their way back to his living room. When he mechanically started to head for the couch though, her hand tightened around his elbow.

"U-uh," she admonished. "Back to bed."

Any other day he would have objected, but even the thought of an argument made his head hurt and his body was screaming to lie down again. He was too tired to fight both Claire and whatever shit he had come down with. So he allowed her to lead him over to his bed help him settle down again, a second pillow behind his back so he lay half-reclined against the wall, breathing more easily. His eyes closed of their own accord and he was dimly aware of her leaving the room again. Taking a glass from the kitchen shelves, filling it with tap water. Picking up the bottle of ibuprofen from the counter on her way back.

He felt the mattress shift under her weight as she sat down and placed the glass and the pain meds on the nightstand.

"Matt?"

Her hand came to rest on his forehead, blissfully cool against his heated skin, and his eyes cracked open again as he turned his blind gaze towards her. The thud of her heart transmitted her thoughts as clearly as if she'd spoken them aloud.

"You're worried." He didn't know why the insight bothered him the way it did. The coolness disappeared.

"I think I got every right to be. You're burning up." The reproach in her voice was softened by concern. "You should have stayed home like I told you."

"How do you know I didn't?"

"Actually, your condition speaks for itself. Besides, there's a wet puddle around your shoes." She nodded towards the heating where he had left them to dry. Point taken. He made a mental note to stow them away before Foggy showed up.

He felt her move as she reached for her bag, rummaging through its contents. His brows furrowed as he tried to make out what she was doing.

"What are you looking for?"

"A thermometer," she mumbled distractedly.

He sighed at that. "I know that I have a fever."

"Just want to know what we're dealing with, okay?" She turned toward him again holding it up as if he could actually see it. "It'll only take a sec."

Fine. He nodded his consent and held still as she leaned over him to slide the tip of the thermometer into his ear. Her breath ghosted against his heated skin and he closed his eyes, numbed by her scent. It was a relief to have something pleasant to focus on when everything else was pain and discomfort.

"You smell great," he mumbled drowsily, speaking before realizing what he said. He heard her heart skip a beat before thumping on, and the hint of a smile touched his lips at her reaction. For a moment he thought she'd say something but then a low beep indicated that the measuring process was done and she straightened herself to read the display.

"104." She sighed in dismay. "Matt, what are you _doing_ to yourself? This is exactly what I was afraid of. Why didn't you just give this Mahoney a call like I suggested?"

"Wanted to," he rasped, then tried to clear his throat but only ended up coughing again. It took a moment until he was able to finish his sentence. "But I didn't want to call the cops from my smart phone."

"Why? They have an anonymous tip line. They don't trace your phone."

Matt slowly shook his head, exhausted. It was hard to focus on the conversation as his senses were all over the place, zooming in on random impressions, and Claire's proximity was distracting – albeit in a pleasant way. "I didn't want to risk it. Anyone who knows about the number of barrels on the ship is suspicious."

"Yeah, I get that. But couldn't you have asked Foggy to help you out? Get a new burner phone, let _him_ call the cops?"

"I didn't want him to get involved."

"Well, I sure hope this was worth it."

He smiled ruefully. "Didn't think it would get this bad."

It was the truth. He had felt better when he'd set out last night, meditating had improved his condition a great deal. If he'd known that it would end like this, he might have reconsidered. On the other hand, it felt good to know that he'd done everything he could and that the cops had a lead. The FBI, he mentally corrected himself.

"Well, to be honest, your fever worries me quite a bit." She was biting her lip, considering him. "I think you might need antibiotics to fight the infection, but I won't be able to get any until after work. You take any ibuprofen today?"

When he shook his head no, she opened the bottle on the nightstand and tossed a pill into her palm, then retrieved another packet of pills from her bag.

"I brought you some meds," she went on. "Prednisone to keep your lungs from scarring, to avoid any long term impairment. I want you to take one now and another one this evening. Two times a day, at least for a week. I'll leave the blister on the nightstand, okay?"

"Okay."

The pills found the way into his palm and he sat up a little to accept the glass that was handed to him, then washed them down with some water.

"You know, this would be a lot easier if I could convince you to see a doctor," she suggested hopefully, but the question in her voice told him that she already knew his answer.

"I can handle this."

"You're planning to meditate this away?"

He gave her a lop-sided smile, raising an eyebrow at her remark.

"Stubborn as usual." She sighed, taking the empty glass from his hands. "How is your shoulder?"

"Healing," he mumbled.

"You'll let me have a look anyway?"

He nodded, reclining against the pillows. It was good to lie down again as his body was reminding him non-too-gently that he was indeed fighting an infection. The world was spinning like a carousel and he closed his eyes against the dizziness, riding on a sudden wave of heat that washed over his body.

"Matt?"

He frowned when he realized that he'd missed part of the conversation and couldn't answer the question she'd asked.

"Sorry," he mumbled, aware of her worried gaze resting on him. "You were saying?"

"I just wanted to know if you were still with me. You look kind of pale." She paused to study his face. "How's the pain?"

His lips twitched slightly, a resemblance of a sad smile. "It hurts," he said plainly. "And my senses are..." He made a weak gesture, trying to find the right words. "The fever is really messing them up. It doesn't help."

He felt her hand touch his arm in a gesture of sympathy. "It'll get better once the meds kick in. Shoulder looks good though," she reassured him.

"Told you." He smiled weakly, letting his eyes slip closed again.

He felt her fingers brush over his skin as she applied a fresh dressing, smoothing it flat, then come to rest against his cheek. It was tempting to lean into the touch and he barely resisted.

"You should try and get some sleep," she said softly. There was a short silence in which he felt her gaze rest on him. "You want me to stay?"

He did. But it felt wrong to ask it of her. She was tired, he could hear it in her voice, and Foggy would be here in a couple of hours anyway. Although he probably wouldn't stay long with their law practice and all.

"Matt?" She addressed him again, repeating the question from before.

"You're exhausted," he mumbled. "You should get some sleep yourself."

"That's not what I asked."

The hint of a smile touched his lips and he sighed softly. There was no way he could lawyer himself out of this one, not when his brain was sluggish like this. All he knew was that her offer was genuine and he didn't want to be alone.

"Of course I want you to stay."

"I'll stay then," she promised. "Get some rest."

He felt her hand move to rest on his arm, her pulse thumping steadily against his skin. It was the last thing he sensed before he lost track of everything else and exhaustion pulled him under.

* * *

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N Sorry everyone, I really needed to take a break, but I'm back. I would like to thank everybody for their kind comments and support, it's been wonderful to hear from you! There's a lot of Foggy and Claire in this chapter, thought they might take the opportunity to finally get to know each other. More Matt in the next chapter. Hope you enjoy :-)_

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

Claire remained sitting on the edge of the bed for a while longer even after it was obvious that Matt had fallen asleep. She watched his breaths gradually even out and become deeper until his head finally dropped slightly to the side, lips parting when his muscles went limp and exhaustion got the better of him. He looked pale under the unnatural flush of fever, frail even. It was hard to believe that the man who lay here in front of her, sick and completely played out, was actually the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, the man that local criminals feared and who had brought down Wilson Fisk and his empire. The very same man who had saved her from the Russians and had beaten the crap out of her tormentors so they'd never lay hands on her again. So that she was safe.

Back then, part of her had wanted to blame him for what had happened to her, but in her heart she had always known that this decision had been hers. She had known that helping him would put her at risk, and if she could turn back time, knowing the consequences her actions would have, she would do it again. He was reckless at times, sure, and the memory of him interrogating that dirty cop – Foster, wasn't it? - still made her shudder. But when she was back in the ER talking to the people he had saved, there was only one conclusion she could come to, that in the end he was a good man, that he was making a difference and that he deserved all the support she could give.

She had made a rule for herself though, one that the rational part of her mind had thought up to protect her from further pain. She would not get involved with him. It had seemed the smart thing to do once she had realized what kind of man he was, and she had thought that she would be able to stick to it. Keep an emotional distance, be professional. But now that she was sitting at his side, seeing him weak and suffering, she realized how much she cared. It hurt her to see him like this. Maybe it was about time to admit that she had been wrong.

Absentmindedly, she rubbed her tired eyes, frowning at herself. What was she thinking? It was probably just the lack of sleep, making her all sentimental. She was stronger than this. She was smart enough to know what was good for her and what wasn't, and Matt Murdock was a complicated man. He was making her life difficult already. It would become much more difficult if she allowed herself to give in now. Besides, the reminded herself, it took two to make that decision, and Matt had readily agreed to end their affair before it had even begun.

He made a small sound of distress that pulled her from her thoughts, and she saw his eyebrows twitch in his sleep, his head turn. The tortured expression that flitted across his face caused her to instinctively reach out and lay a hand against the side of his face, which still felt overly warm. He didn't wake, but somehow her touch seemed to register because the tension faded from his lines. She brushed a wet strand of hair from his forehead, resting her hand on his brow and frowned in disapproval. She didn't get the impression that his fever was improving at all, though the meds should have kicked in already.

The fever was actually her greatest worry at the moment. While she knew it to be his body's response to his damaged lung tissue and probable infection, it would most likely continue to mess with his sleep and prevent him from getting any real rest. Besides, if it continued to rise, she would have to get him to hospital, whether he'd like it or not. She hoped it wouldn't come to that though. The cops were still looking for the shooters and the hospitals had been requested to inform the police in case someone with suspicious injuries was admitted.

She sighed deeply, quietly pushing to her feet, and cast a last glance at his sleeping form before she left the room and pulled the door closed. The walls were thin, she remembered that from the short time she had shared the apartment with him, and she would notice if anything was wrong. But she hadn't slept much in the last 48 hours, and if she wanted to keep going, she needed a cup of coffee.

She knew where he kept most of the things in his kitchen and after a couple of minutes the coffee machine was gurgling. To her dismay, there was no milk in the fridge and there wasn't a lot of food either. Just some eggs, a half empty jar of strawberry jelly and several bottles of German beer. She also found two apples in a bowl on the counter and some toast, but that was about it. Looked like she would have to order in today.

She waited until the coffee was ready and poured herself a cup, black with lots of sugar, and had just made herself comfortable on the couch when there was a knock on the door. She hesitated before putting down the cup and got up. Matt hadn't mentioned that he was expecting anyone.

When she opened the door, she was surprised to find Foggy standing there, a big shopping bag in hand, face slightly reddened from the cold. Single snowflakes melted on the collar of his coat and in his shaggy hair. He looked a little worse for the wear, as if he hadn't slept a lot, and clearly hadn't expected to meet her here if the expression on his face was any indication.

"Um, hi," she greeted him, not really sure what to say. She didn't know him all that well, and it was a little weird to only ever see him when Matt was unwell. He was a nice person, she had never doubted that. However, the only expression that Claire had ever seen on his face was worry. It didn't exactly make it easier to bond.

"Hi." She could practically see the wheels turn in his head as he tried to find an explanation for her presence. "What are you doing here? Is Matt alright?"

"No. He's - ," she hesitated, "He's not doing so well."

The crease between his eyebrows deepened. "Can I come in?"

"Um, yes, of course."

She closed the door behind him and followed him into the living room, where he put down his purchases on the table and started to unbutton his coat. He looked toward the closed bedroom door and she guessed his thoughts without difficulties.

"He's asleep," she told him, deliberately keeping her voice low and Foggy instinctively followed her example.

"What happened? He asked you to come over?"

She shook her head no, subconsciously crossing her arms in front of her chest in a defensive gesture. "I dropped by after work to check on him and bring him some meds." Her voice dropped a register as she recalled how bad he had looked. "He barely made it to the door."

She didn't mean to sound as bitter as she did, but she couldn't help it. She distinctly remembered Foggy promising her to keep an eye on him, make sure that he took it easy, and while he had probably meant it when he'd said it, apparently he hadn't done a very good job of it.

"He's running a high fever," she went on, voice low. "Considering the stuff he breathed in, this could well be the onset of pneumonia." She pressed her lips together, sighing in frustration. She had to ask it, even though Matt would probably hate her for it. "Did you know he went out again last night?"

The way that his eyes widened told her that he hadn't. _Great, Matt. You didn't even tell your best friend._

"What – in that weather?" Foggy whispered incredulously. He had just shrugged out of his coat and was about to hang it over one of the chairs. "Is that why he got so sick?"

Claire raised her shoulders in a helpless shrug, "There's no way to know that for sure, but it surely didn't help."

"Great," Foggy sighed in obvious frustration.

"He said that he wanted to talk to the cops," she went on, wiping her eyes which were burning from lack of sleep. "Tell them that part of the chemical weapons probably ended up in the city."

Foggy gave her a long glance.

"Is that the reason for the terror alert?"

"They issued a warning?"

"Yeah."

"Well, good."

It meant that the authorities were taking the whole thing seriously. Matt would be happy to hear it too, might even consider to lay low for a couple of days. Let himself heal. Foggy, however didn't look happy at all. It took a moment until she realized what was bothering him.

He'd had no idea that part of the chemical weapons had disappeared.

"He didn't tell you about his suspicions, did he."

"No."

It figured. Trust Matt to only reveal as much information as necessary. Most likely, he'd been worried about Foggy trying to make him stay at home when he was itching to talk to the cops. Not only to warn them, but to find out if they had a lead. If he could help.

"Well," she sighed, trying to think of something placating to say, "he probably wouldn't have told me either if he could have avoided it. He has this thing for doing things alone."

She sank into the armchair, reaching for the half empty cup of coffee on the table, then nodded towards the coffee machine. "Want one too?"

Foggy hesitated, then walked over to the counter and helped himself. She couldn't help but notice the tension in his body and the tightness around his mouth, which revealed exactly how much the whole thing was getting to him. Now that she was watching him, she actually felt sorry for him. It was obvious that Matt's friend was suffering a great deal.

"You seem upset," Claire observed quietly. "You okay?"

"No."

He avoided to look at her, apparently didn't want her to see how troubled he really was, and focused his attention on pouring the coffee, took his time with the task. Retrieved a bottle of milk from the shopping bag, returned to the counter to add some milk to his cup together with a liberal amount of sugar. Fished a spoon from a drawer and stirred it. Took a sip, closing his eyes.

When he finally looked up again, the hardness in his eyes had diminished, but the tightness in his shoulders remained.

"I'm sorry," he said. "This is not your fault."

He gave her a weak smile. "I'm just tired of him getting hurt like this, and it really pisses me off that half the time he doesn't even tell me what's going on. I thought we were past that. I mean - " He paused, looking for the right words, then shook his head. "I'm really trying to be a good friend here, be there for him, you know? Pick him up when he needs me to. Make sure that he's okay. And he just goes out there again and gets himself more hurt."

Claire smiled sadly.

"Yeah, I know what that feels like."

"You do?" He looked at her in mild confusion, then shook his head at himself, apparently realizing what she meant. "Oh, sorry. Of course you do."

She felt his gaze rest on her for a long moment, thoughtful, pondering, and she self-consciously pushed a stray strand of hair from her face, unsure what to make of his scrutiny. There was a lot on his mind, that much was obvious. His face wore an expression of utter desolation.

"You really care about him, don't you," he said finally.

She raised her eyes in surprise, hadn't seen that one coming.

"I do," she admitted easily. "Else I wouldn't be here."

"I guess," he nodded. "So, how do you stand it? Patching him up, knowing that he'll get hurt again? That he might get himself killed? You must have been doing that for quite a while now."

She gazed at the ceiling, exhaling a long sigh. It was a fair question, she just didn't know how honest she wanted to be with this man whom she hardly knew. Who wasn't overly fond of Matt's vigilantism if she remembered correctly. However, he probably wasn't that much interested in her feelings for Matt anyway. The way he looked, he was struggling to get a grip on what had become a hard to bear reality for him. She had to remind herself that – contrary to herself – he hadn't befriended Matt when he was his Daredevil persona. He had known Matt as a lawyer, and there had been a time when he didn't constantly have to worry about his well-being.

"I don't know," she replied honestly, pulling her feet up into the armchair where it was warmer. "There are times when it's rough. But in the end it doesn't really matter because I believe in what he'd doing. And I don't want to let him down."

He nodded thoughtfully, drifting toward the couch and leaning against it, cup in hand. He didn't show any inclination to sit down though. Seemed to be happy with the couch standing between them for the moment.

"So, what about you?" She tilted her head, looking at him inquiringly. "How do _you_ deal with this?"

Foggy exhaled slowly, then raised his shoulders in a vague shrug. "I worry. Like all the time. Ever since that night I found him half-dead here in his living room. I don't think that's a sight I will ever forget."

"Yeah, me neither."

It was a painful memory they shared, and it was disconcerting to see her own troubled expression mirrored in Foggy's face as their thoughts trailed back to that night. She saw the same terror in his lines that she had felt, the same fear.

"I tried to talk him out of it, you know," Foggy said softly. "More than once. He hasn't always been like this. Back at Colombia, when I first met him, he was just a supremely nice guy who wanted to help people. Make a difference. But this resort to violence," he shrugged helplessly, "I can't wrap my head around it."

"But he _is_ making a difference," Claire replied. "You see that, right?"

Foggy looked at her doubtfully.

"Maybe this is easier for me to accept because when I met him, he was already wearing the mask. So I knew what I let myself in for. But the way you describe him… I think he still is that person, Foggy. He really cares about this city and its people. It's just, the problems he faces, there's no other way to solve them. When someone gets mugged in a dark alley at night and calls for help, you help in the best way you can. Now I couldn't stop the crime from happening, I'd just call the cops and hope for the best. But Matt can do more than that. And he hears an awful lot of people calling for help."

"He's taking an awful lot of risk doing it too, if you ask me."

"He does." Claire nodded. And some of the risks were unnecessary too.

Foggy let go of a long breath, looking into his cup as if for an answer. "I wish he would ask for help just once. There was no need for him to go out last night."

"Well, he did talk to the cops. That's something."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

He turned to put his cup on the table behind him and started to tend to the shopping bag and Claire took that as a sign that this part of the conversation was over. She got up once she realized what he was doing, jumping at the opportunity to do something.

"Can I help?"

"Nah, it's okay." He smiled his thanks and Claire stood back, giving him some space as he took out the purchases, laying them out on the table. Bagels from that fancy place down the block. Two different kinds of cream cheese, peanut butter, ham. A bottle of orange juice, some veggies. It was quite a lot and when he noticed the look on her face, he gave an apologetic shrug. "I know, I got carried away a bit. I was hoping to have breakfast with Matt, thought he might be hungry. You should go and wake him."

She briefly considered it, then shook her head.

"Actually, I would just let him sleep. He can eat when he wakes up."

"Oh, okay." He raised his eyebrows in surprise but didn't question her decision. "What about you? You hungry? There's more than enough."

Claire actually smiled at the suggestion. She hadn't eaten anything since she'd gotten home from work, and if she was honest, she was starting to get a bit hungry. It was nice of him to ask.

"Actually, yeah, breakfast sounds great. Thanks."

"Good. I really hate it when good food goes to waste. You can set the table if you want."

"Right." She disappeared behind the counter, gathering the dishes they'd need, while Foggy checked the fridge for any additional food. He shook his head in dismay, mumbling something about mice starving to death in Matt's kitchen.

"So, what's the plan?" He asked her as he returned to the table with the half-empty jar of jelly she had noticed earlier.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you said he's in pretty bad shape. You think we should take him to a doctor?"

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Hell, yes. But I don't think he'll let you. Trouble is, he has a point too. There might still be toxins in his bloodstream, and with bullet graze and rash on his face they might connect him with the shooting at the harbor."

"Okay, I get that," Foggy agreed unhappily. "So, what? We just hope for the best?"

"Basically, yeah."

Claire grabbed the coffee pot and joined Foggy at the table, refilling both their cups.

"You're staying with him today?" He asked her.

"That's the idea. At least until I have to get back to work this afternoon."

Foggy nodded. "I can close up the office at five, maybe earlier if I reschedule some of the appointments."

"You want to take turns?"

"You got a better idea?"

"No."

It was a reasonable suggestion, actually eased some of her worries. She had been wondering what to do if Matt got worse and she had to leave for work. She'd used up all her sick days weeks ago.

Foggy retrieved his smart phone, unlocked the screen and then slid it across the table toward her. "Could I get your number just in case?"

"Sure."

While Claire typed in her number as requested, Foggy took a poppy seed bagel and then nudged the paper bag in her direction, encouraging her to take her pick.

"This is weird," she said as she glanced into the paper bag, deciding on a plain bagel.

"What is?"

"Us having breakfast while Matt is asleep."

She decided on a plain bagel and cut it in half, coating it with a liberal amount of cream cheese.

"We could still wake him."

"No," she shook her head, "By all means, let him sleep. He can eat later, if he feels up to it. It's just – we don't really know each other, and this is Matt's place."

"Oh, I think he's okay with it," Foggy stated and the confidence in his voice made it easy to believe him. Claire noticed that he looked more relaxed now, the tension finally gone from his posture. He actually looked a lot more like the Foggy Matt had told her about.

"Besides, I think it might be about time that we got to know each other. Because if you're right and he really has pneumonia, we might keep running into each other for the next couple of days."

Claire sighed softly, lips twitching into an exhausted smile as she bit into her bagel.

"Yeah, probably."

* * *

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N I have to admit that this chapter was a bit of a struggle. Maybe I'm getting more critical of myself, or maybe my writing gets worse :-P Whichever is true, I think this is the best I can do for now, so it'll stay as it is, at least for the moment._

 _Again, I can't thank you enough for your continuing support and encouragement. It has been lovely to hear from you and it's a great motivation to keep going._

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

Claire had promised that Matt would feel better once the meds took effect, and sure enough, he rested fairly well throughout the morning hours. He didn't notice Foggy's visit, only learned that he had been there when Claire offered him a bagel and a cup of herbal tea around noon. He drank the tea and took the Ibuprofen she gave him, but he didn't feel hungry at all and went back to sleep without even trying the food.

As the day wore on, his condition grew worse. Restlessly, he turned on his too warm bed, shaking in the grip of fever. He was uncomfortably aware of silk bedsheets clinging to his skin, the barely numbed pain in his lungs that flared up with every breath he took. Sounds were unnaturally loud, assailing him with an intensity that was hard to bear and rarely manifested into something he recognized – water gushing through pipes from below, footsteps in the hallway, the murmur of Claire's voice from his living room. He realized that she was talking on the phone, but he was unable to focus on the conversation and at some point his attention slipped away.

He drifted into a dream in which he could actually see. He was a child again, lying on the pavement, the sky above him open and blue. He sensed a wrecked truck somewhere to his right, didn't have to turn his head to see the barrels that lay scattered across the street, leaking, their poisonous contents pouring onto the street. The substance was everywhere, coated the asphalt, his face, his eyes, and this time it had also entered his lungs, burning him from the inside. He coughed weakly to clear his airways, struggled to sit up and couldn't. There was movement though, someone leaning over him. Talking to him. _It's okay, I'm here_ _._ The voice of a woman, but he saw the face of his father, dark against the bright sky. _Close your eyes,_ _Matty_ _._ He didn't want to, knew what would happen if he did. So he gazed up into his father's face, holding on to it for as long as he could before finally the inevitable happened. The world turned dark.

Someone had chained him. He did not know where he was, what had happened, but he realized with sudden terror that he couldn't move. He yanked at his restraints and the metallic rattle lit up the room, sound revealing the shapes of barrels piled up around him. Oil seeping onto the floor, catching fire. Heat seared him, suffocated him, and again he strained, trying to break free. Smoke filled the air, collected in his lungs with every breath he took. Blocked his airways, choked him. Panic gripped him as flames started to lick over his skin, and he leaned into the chains with all he had, trying to scream but his voice failed him. He heard them snap as he flung himself forward and a cough ripped lose that felt like it tore his chest in half. Copper on his lips, as he found himself sitting upright, shaking, unable to think of anything else but the fiery air that burnt him from the inside. Ragged breaths hammered from his lungs. Disoriented he reached for something, _anything_ close by and found an arm, a shoulder, a face. _Claire._

A pained sound escaped his lips as he collapsed against her, and he felt her arms wrap around him, holding him as tremors started to shake him in earnest. She was saying something but he couldn't make out the words through the violent thumping of his heart, only felt her lips move against his skin, felt her breath in his hair, her scent folding around him. He tried to focus on that, divert his attention from his tortured lungs and the feverish heat, and gradually he felt the tremors subside.

"It's okay, Matt."

Her voice. Her hand on the nape of his neck, the warmth of her skin against his cheek. He didn't want to lean into her touch like that but he couldn't help it, felt himself drifting again despite his attempts to stay lucid. It wasn't long until her hand caught him around the back of his head, and he was guided to lie back against his pillows.

He felt like he was floating, fever consuming every conscious thought. At some point he was aware of his head being lifted, the rim of a glass touching his lips, and he managed to drink before his focus slipped away. The world disappeared behind a curtain of fire, leaving only two sensations that remained overly clear – the relentless pain shredding his lungs and the scorching heat. It was everywhere. He felt it boil his blood and sear his skin, taking shape as a horned beast that sat on his chest, pressing down on him, squeezing the air from his lungs and leaving him struggling for breath. He pushed at it, vainly trying to make it go away.

There was a splash of water from somewhere behind the flames, followed by a touch on his forehead that was so cold it made him gasp. His eyes slid open as awareness forced itself on him and he noticed in bewilderment that it was no longer Claire sitting by his side.

"Foggy?"

The word didn't come out right, sounding slurred and hoarse. But Foggy understood him.

"That's right, buddy."

"What – what're you doing?"

Water was rinsed from a cloth and the cold sensation returned, pressing against his cheek.

"Trying to get your fever down. Meds don't seem to help and this is the only thing I could think of."

It took a moment until the information registered and he licked his dry lips, forcing himself to stay focused.

"Where's Claire?"

Silence for a beat. He surely hadn't asked about her already, had he? He couldn't remember. Time had collapsed into an endless present and his brain refused to provide any details beyond that.

"At the hospital. She'll be back soon." His voice was calm but Matt could hear the fear in his heartbeat. It was racing like a horse in flight. "You're gonna be okay."

Matt wanted to ask what troubled him, but concentrating was becoming harder by the minute and he couldn't find the words. It took an enormous effort just to keep his eyes open. The coldness reappeared to rest on his brow.

"It's okay, Matt. Go back to sleep."

It sounded like a good idea and he closed his eyes allowing his mind to drift again. Maybe it was due to Foggy's efforts, but the heat seemed to relent somewhat, enough for his over-stimulated senses to get some respite and synapses to stop their constant firing. Silence wrapped around him and he slipped deeper into sleep, secure in the knowledge that Foggy was still there. Sometimes a random sensation penetrated the darkness, a particularly vicious stab in his chest, the sharp pain that came with a cough. He had the impression of someone talking to him, hands gently taking hold of his arm. A pinprick, a needle sliding into his vein. The return of Claire's pulse thumping against his skin. Whatever grip he'd still had on reality until then, started to slip and this time he didn't dream.

* * *

Matt woke with the knowledge that Claire was gone. Her scent still filled the air, faint like a ghostly presence, but her heartbeat that had anchored him during his fever had disappeared. He vaguely remembered her sitting by his side, speaking words of reassurance and comfort, recalled the cool touch of her hand on his brow. He closed his eyes as he tried to take hold of another memory that lay just beyond his grasp. Foggy.

It could have been a dream for all he knew, he surely hadn't been that sick. But the smell of day-old sweat on his skin suggested that at least part of it was true. He lay still for a while, listening for the familiar sounds of his neighborhood, endlessly relieved that his senses were back to normal. It was then that he noticed the steady thud of a heartbeat from his living room and immediately recognized it as Foggy's. He was working on a case if the rustle of papers and occasional typing was any indication.

Gingerly he pushed himself upright, taking a deep breath that was considerably less fire and tilted his head backwards to rest against the wall. He felt dizzy, weak to the point that he was tempted to lie down again and go back to sleep, but he needed to know what had happened. How long he had slept. His throat felt parched, rough as sandpaper, and he extended a hand toward his nightstand, expecting to find a glass of water there and wasn't disappointed. He took a long sip, relishing the taste on his lips, and emptied it completely.

"Foggy?"

His voice was barely there, raspy like iron grating against stone, and it caused a tickle in his throat that made him cough painfully. He closed his eyes in anticipation of another coughing spell and was infinitely grateful when nothing happened. He was just about to call out a second time when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and a moment later the door to his bedroom slid open. Foggy appeared in the doorway, smelling of coffee, fading deodorant and a sleepless night.

"Thank God you're awake."

It was almost a sigh, relief evident in his voice. His heartbeat spelled exhaustion.

"What time is it?" Matt asked, pushing himself up a little further. The sounds of the city had faded into a low hum, it had to be some time at night. Had he really slept that long?

"Almost four in the morning." Foggy positioned himself beside the bed, regarding him with calm eyes. "It's Friday, if you want to know."

"Friday. _"_ He repeated the word hoarsely as the information sank in. That meant he had lost two days. It was an uncomfortable thought to say the least, but it explained the acrid smell of sweat and sickness that clung to his skin and the bedsheets.

"Claire's at work?"

"Yeah," Foggy nodded. "We've been taking turns to watch over you. How are you feeling?"

He felt weak, exhausted to the bone, and if the worry in Foggy's voice was any indication, he looked it too. But his fever was down and his lungs were healing. The pain that had been stabbing his chest had diminished considerably, the former agony merely an inconvenience now.

"Shaky," Matt admitted, "but I think I'll live."

"You're still pale as a sheet."

Matt smiled weakly. "Not surprised to hear that."

"You really had us worried there," Foggy went on, sitting down on the edge of the bed. The tone of his voice told him that he still was. "You were really out of it. Claire had to get antibiotics to help you fight the infection. Don't ask me how she gets her hands on the prescription stuff, but it helped. You've been resting a lot easier afterward."

He didn't remember anything about that.

"Can I get you anything?" Foggy asked softly. "You hungry? You haven't eaten in two days."

The idea didn't sound half bad. However, there were other needs that were more pressing.

"Um, yeah. But I really need to use the bathroom first."

"Need a hand?"

"I guess."

Matt folded the blanket back and maneuvered his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for Foggy to help him stand, and he readily took his weight. It was a slow walk, in which Matt was infinitely grateful for the steady arm that held him upright. His chest felt still tight, preventing him from taking a proper breath and it only added to the dizziness he already felt. When they reached their destination, Foggy was about to accompany him inside, but Matt shook his head.

"Thanks, I can take it from here."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He locked his knees to conceal how much his legs were shaking and curled his lips into what he hoped was a convincing smile. "I'll call you if I need anything."

Matt pulled the door behind him shut and he heard Foggy linger outside for a while before returning to the living room. Matt waited until he was gone, and when he had taken care of his immediate needs, he started to wash the sweat and dirt from his skin. He really would have preferred to take a shower since he longed to wash his hair too, but his legs were barely supporting him as it was, and he actually had to sit down on the closed lid of the can to brush his teeth.

When he exited the room, he almost stumbled over a set of fresh clothes lying in front of the bathroom door and he picked them up with a grateful smile on his face. It was considerate of Foggy. He hadn't even noticed him placing them there.

Dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a soft shirt and finally feeling human again, he made his way back into the living room. He went slowly, one hand against the wall for support, and when Foggy saw him, he was at his side immediately to lend him a hand.

"Back to bed?" He asked.

"Couch."

"You got it."

The smell of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air, accompanied by the scent of warm bread, ham and sliced apples.

"I made breakfast," Foggy declared as he helped Matt settle on the couch.

"Isn't it a little early for that?"

"You said you were hungry. Besides, you need to eat if you want to take your meds. I would offer you a cup of coffee, but the way you sound I think sage tea might be the better choice."

"Coffee sounds great."

"Suit yourself."

While Matt made himself comfortable on the couch, Foggy disappeared into the bedroom and returned with the medicine Claire had brought and a woolen blanket which Matt gratefully wrapped around him. Now that the fever was down, his body felt drained of all energy and he found himself chilly despite the room temperature being normal. He hoped that a proper meal would help with that.

"Karen's been asking about you, by the way," Foggy went on as he started to set the table, placing a glass of water next to the pills. The light tone in his voice had disappeared, making way for something else. "She wanted to come over, mentioned some super-delicious recipe for chicken soup. But I figured she might have wondered about your bandaged shoulder, so I told her it wasn't a good idea right now."

That was good thinking.

"Thank you, Foggy."

"You're welcome." The coffee machine stopped gurgling and Foggy went to switch it off. There was a short silence in which he heard Foggy rummage around the shelves and place two cups on the counter.

"You really should have listened to Claire to take it easy."

Matt felt himself grow tense at the remark, casual as it was. It was no surprise that Claire and Foggy had talked while watching over him, actually Matt had been expecting it. But somehow he had hoped that Claire would keep this particular piece of information to herself.

"How much did she tell you?" He asked uneasily.

"Well, I know that you talked to Brett."

Matt clenched his jaw at that, mentally steeling himself for another argument. But Foggy's heartbeat was curiously devoid of anger. All he detected was exhaustion and a deep sadness. He wondered what exactly Claire had told him. Maybe she had been able to explain what Matt couldn't.

"You don't have to explain," Foggy went on before he could say anything. "You did what you felt needed to be done. I get that. And it's probably thanks to you that they're looking for the chemical weapons at all. They've issued a terror warning, by the way. Public places are tight with security, they really are taking this thing seriously."

Matt breathed a sigh of relief. That was good news. However, Foggy didn't seem to be finished. He listened to Foggy filling the cups, noticed the change in his breath that told him his friend was carefully wording his next sentence. Foggy returned with the coffee, handing one cup to Matt and placing his own on the table before returning to the kitchen to get the food. When he finally sat down in the armchair across from him, he sighed.

"I just wish you had told me what was really going on." The tone of his voice revealed how hurt Foggy was and Matt swallowed dryly. He couldn't blame him really. "Matt, why didn't you tell me? We're talking about chemical weapons here in New York, for Christ's sake! Of course, you needed to do _something._ But _I_ could have talked to Brett, hell, I would have gotten you a new burner too. There was no need to do this alone."

Matt could feel Foggy's eyes boring into him, searching for an answer, and Matt lowered his gaze, not knowing what to say.

"Matt?"

"I didn't want you to get involved in this," he said quietly.

"Why? Don't you think you can trust me?"

Matt suppressed a sigh. That wasn't it, but he could see why Foggy might think that, and he felt genuinely sorry to make Foggy feel like he didn't trust him. That he was keeping things from him. Again.

"I didn't want you to get hurt."

He sensed the frown on Foggy's face.

"Sorry, but I don't think I can follow your train of thought here. How would buying a new burner phone have gotten me hurt?"

"It's not about buying a phone. It's - " Matt forced himself to direct his blind gaze in Foggy's direction, didn't want his friend to think that he was trying to avoid him. "I didn't want you to pursue this any further. When I was going up against Fisk – when _we_ were – things were really getting out of hand. I tried to keep you out of harm's way, tried to convince you to use the law against him. Remember? But you started doing things on your own anyway. Karen went off to talk to Fisk's mother and you convinced Marci to steal those files - "

"Which played an important part in bringing Fisk's empire down."

"Yes," Matt acknowledged. "But it was dangerous and you could have gotten yourselves killed. And if I had told you about these chemical weapons being somewhere here in the city – I couldn't be sure what you would do. And I couldn't have protected you." He gestured at himself. "Not like this."

A long silence stretched between them once he had finished the sentence, in which Foggy took his time to ponder the words.

"Matt, you can't protect everyone around you," he finally said. "You are not responsible for my well-being. Or Karen's. Or Marci's. We're all adults and we know that our actions have consequences. And what really bugs me is that you kind of expect me to lay low while _you_ put yourself in harm's way."

"I can protect myself."

"You can barely stand up."

Matt shook his head in frustration.

"Look, I know I'm not at my best at the moment. But I know how to fight, I know how to defend myself. If push comes to shove, my chances for survival are way better than yours, Foggy, and you know that."

"Well, right now I think I could take you on."

"Foggy..."

His friend raised a hand to silence him, letting go of a deep breath. "Okay, I catch your drift here. You're more skilled in beating up the bad guys than me."

"Thank you."

"But you don't have the privilege to put yourself in danger. You don't want me to get hurt and I appreciate that. But I care about you too, Matt. It's what friends do. And I think it's about time that you acknowledged that."

Foggy made a pause, waiting for Matt to answer, but he found himself lost for words. From his perspective, Foggy was right. It wasn't hard to understand that his friend worried about him the same way that Matt worried about Foggy. But Matt had a better understanding of the things he could do, the edge that came with his heightened senses, how well he could fight. His current state was just bad luck, a stupid mistake. If he'd picked up his baton like Stick taught him to, he'd have taken out his opponent and everything would have gone well. This wouldn't happen again, there was no need for Foggy to worry. However, he didn't think he could make his friend understand.

Foggy sat down in the armchair across the table, his heartbeat loud and expectant in the silence.

"Matt, will you please talk to me?"

"I really don't know what to say, Foggy." He helplessly shook his head. "I know that you're worried, and I appreciate it that you care. I really do, Foggy. But I don't see how you would be less worried if I dragged you into this."

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, you already dragged me into this. And I'd really appreciate it if you told me what was going on because I kind of think that I deserve to know."

When he didn't answer, Foggy continued.

"Matt, I want to help. _Please_ let me help you. I really hate you getting hurt like this. The past two days have been - " he paused, looking for the right words.

"Let's just say, I really don't want to do that again. I know you want me out of harm's way and I appreciate it. But I have given this some thought. You are in no shape to do anything right now, not for a couple of days at least. And while the feds are working on the case, there's still the risk that they might not find the chemical weapons in time. So until they do, everyone in the city is in danger, _which_ _includes me_. There's nothing you can do about it, except trust the authorities. Or you could tell me what you know and maybe we can figure something out. So what do you say?"

Matt was silent for a while, pondering what Foggy had said. He was right, Matt couldn't go out like this although he desperately wanted to, and it was necessary to take action as soon as possible. People might get hurt if he didn't help, and he would blame himself later if he hadn't done everything in his power to prevent the worst from happening.

He hated to admit that Foggy had a point here.

"Okay." He nodded his consent.

"Good. So, could you please tell me what you know."

Matt exhaled a deep breath, hesitating. He didn't like the idea of Foggy getting involved, doubted that there was a lot that he could do anyway. But it was clear that his friend needed to know what was going on, if only for his peace of mind. He felt Foggy's gaze rest on him, waiting, and finally Matt started to tell him. He relayed in detail what had happened that night at the harbor, told him about Qa'id and what he had learned from Brett. When he mentioned Chamoun, Foggy raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he didn't say anything until Matt had finished.

"So, you think that one of the cops helped smuggle the chemical weapons into the city, and that Chamoun somehow had his fingers in it."

"Maybe. I was going to find out about that."

Foggy nodded, acknowledging the information. "Okay, since Chamoun is in jail, there's not an awful lot we can do about him. But I could have Karen do some research on him, start a file."

"Can't we leave her out of this?" Matt pleaded.

Foggy pursed his lips in thought. "Yeah, we could. But she's really good at it and I don't see why she shouldn't. It's really not that dangerous."

He hesitated, giving it some thought, then nodded unhappily. "Fine," he sighed. "But keep an eye on her."

"Agreed," Foggy affirmed. "You said that there were two cops who survived the shooting at the harbor. I take it you haven't talked to them yet?"

"No. They're still in hospital, I think."

"What about this guy you saved?"

Baker. Actually, Matt had no idea if he had even survived. Brett hadn't mentioned him, so he'd just assumed that he was either too injured to be interviewed or that he hadn't made it at all. Claire however could easily find out about that.

Apparently Foggy had the same idea. "You could talk to Claire," he suggested. "I bet she'd be willing to help."

"The feds will be following all those leads," Matt pointed out wearily. "And I'm really not overly fond of the idea to involve the whole bunch of you. Not when I can avoid it. Foggy, you remember how things went with Fisk. Let's play this safe, okay?"

"I hear you."

Matt ran a hand across his face, sighing.

"You're not happy about this," Foggy stated the obvious.

"No."

"Why? It's just a bit of research."

"I know. I just – I don't think it's gonna help find the chemical weapons. It might just put you on the radar of whoever is behind this, or the feds, for that matter."

"So, what's your suggestion?"

Matt hesitated to say it out loud, but Foggy guessed at his thoughts without difficulty. Whatever lightness there had been in Foggy's voice disappeared from one beat to the other.

"You want to go out again, don't you."

"As soon as I'm able to. Yes." He felt Foggy's eyes bore into him, worried. Terrified. "I'm sorry, Foggy. I really don't see any other way. The feds aren't stupid, they know how to follow a lead. The only way I can truly help is by doing what they can't do. And I think I can find the chemical weapons. All I need to do is ask the right people the right questions."

"Matt..."

"I can't let this go Foggy. I simply can't."

Foggy sighed deeply.

"I know."

There was sadness in his answer. Defeat. He knew then that he had won, that Foggy wouldn't try to stop him. It didn't feel half as good as he'd expected.

"At least give yourself some time to heal," Foggy said. It almost sounded like a plea. "Make sure you're ready before you go out again, okay?"

Matt nodded sincerely. "I will."

"You look like hell."

"Yeah, probably."

"You do."

Matt attempted a weak smile, letting Foggy know that he had made his point. He was surprised when his friend abruptly pushed to his feet.

"Before I forget..."

He heard him walk across the room and return with his messenger bag in hand, pulling something out that he wordlessly handed to Matt. It took a moment until he realized what it was.

"You got me a new burner?" He asked softly.

"Claire told me yours was broken. And since you might want to give the cops an anonymous tip again..." he shrugged resignedly. "She typed in her number too."

He didn't know what to say. Coming from Foggy, that really meant a lot.

"Thank you, Foggy."

"Just make sure you call me if you think I can help."

It was obvious how unhappy Foggy was, how much his friend still wanted to talk him out of it. But the offer was heartfelt and Matt would gladly accept it.

"I will."

* * *

TBC


End file.
